I had a minor operation this morning which, while not serious, did not go without incident.
Now, I’m sure you’d agree that only the bravest, toughest hombres (and hombresses) could cope with having an in-growing toenail cut out without the use of anesthetic.
That’s why I know you won’t be surprised to learn that I required not one, but two lots of toe-numbing injections at the podiatrist this morning.
Given that I usually require a second dose of anesthetic at the dentist, and that many years before (back when I still lived in England), I stopped an unrelated operation by pointing out to the surgeon that I could feel the burn of his scalpel as he cut into me during a, shall we say, ‘delicate’ fifty-minute procedure (my old gran always referred to it as the time I got my knackers done), I really ought to have figured out by now that anesthetic doesn’t work so well on me.
A fact which anyone within a fifty yard radius discovered just after the podiatrist, thinking I could no longer feel pain after the first dose, thrust his special scissors under the nail on my big toe.
Needless to say, it was a very manly scream. Any glass shattering was purely coincidental.
To make matters worse, when it was over, I dropped a sneaker on my bandaged toe as I got ready to leave.
Somewhere, my old gran is laughing.