So, I finally got the ok for an audience with the knee surgeon, one Dr. Venkatesh, to discuss the results of my MRI scan. Hobbled down to the relevant hospital wing in town, and waited with an army of bruised and battered souls to be summoned forth. I don't mind saying, I always feel uneasy in hospitals. Apart from anything else, in present-day Cruel Britannia, you simply don't know what you might be leaving the premises with, bug-wise. It may well be your last trip anywhere.
Anyhoo, with the aid of a plastic replica knee with all-moving parts, Doc-V explained the general scenario to me. I nodded a lot and pretended to understand. Long and short of it is, I'm getting operated on pop-kids - a personal first. I asked if I could maybe have the op done under local anaesthetic, but the answer was no, as they have to go in pretty deep by all accounts.
I haven't been under general anaesthesia since I had a tooth pulled when I was six. Back then this meant gas. The dentist, attempting to tap into my fast young hipster mind-set, asked what I'd like to dream about, man. Deputy Dawg I replied and promptly fell into a gaseous coma where me, Musky and Vince Van Gopher got into all kinds of crazy scrapes on a rickety old train speeding West, pursued by a gun-toting dog wearing a waistcoat and a stetson. When I came to, I vomited on the dentist. I'm hoping that med-tech has moved on a little since those heady days.
Just so y'all know, I don't want one of those Kurt Cobain-style candlelit vigils in the hospital grounds, as the moaning and wailing will interfere with my recuperation. However, I'll send a P.O. box address to all interested parties where flowers, wine, money and HMV vouchers may be forwarded to. Dig deep my people.
I will apparently get the call by the end of September, ie, the next six weeks, so I'm just waiting for that phone to ring, then it's Go-time.