2002-08-13 - 6:11 p.m.

Well, we�ll see what happens.

My day off today was rudely blighted by round three of me versus my throatal nubbin, which required niggly inspection by yet another consultant. This time it was back to the good old days - rubber gloves that frankly taste of enema half way down your gullet, as opposed to the scary hi-tec-ery of the oncology ward, the wretched lump having stepped down from cancerweight division to defend its benign-paingiving title.

As usual, across from the main entrance, the infirm-welcoming hostelry �The Hospital Arms� was overflowing with people in various states of alcoholic relief, though they could just as easily have been drowning their sorrows, I suppose. There�s a touching line up of walking frames parked outside the main bar � kind of like Lourdes with a happy hour.

Inside the hospital, it�s a relief as there are only several hundred vocally restless people in front of me, and of them, I�d say no more than, say, twenty percent were violently psychotic, baying at invisible demons or barking like bronchitic coyote, so it was much more civilised than usual. I even thought about dropping in for a quick coffee at the always-popular �Caf� Royale�, though there looked to be some commotion as someone there apparently for a routine exorcism was arguing about their skinny mochachino, so I left it.

Amazingly, I�m beckoned in after only twenty minutes wait, only to be told that the results of the ultrasound I had TWO MONTHS ago were still in transit. Apparently, the messenger has to navigate uncharted waters with the file betwixt his teeth, stopping off only at some unspoilt exotic island to learn the ways of the natives. Either that or their fax is broken. Either way, the Throat Whisperer is unhappy, reassuringly telling me that there�s �going to be a major mistake one of these days�.

Anyway, it�s straight in for the manual recap. That familiar taste of rubber � it�s like a party on my tongue, and everyone�s invited! I ask him if he�d wear the ribbed ones to enhance my pleasure but he declines politely. Satisfied that I�m not about to cough up a tumour, he sits back to consider our options, which seem to be disappointingly singular in their nature � ie. I have to have the saliva gland out. Some tests just to make sure we�re not embarking on that �major mistake�, and then under the knife. Before I can ask any more, he�s straight in with his �only minor risk of complete lower-facial paralysis�, sneaking it in as an afterthought as I�m about to innocently ask if I need to pack my own jim-jams.

Apparently, there�s a tweak of a chance that the surgeon might disturb a nerve that�s unmissably the width of a human hair (�So thicker than YOURS,� he added, unnecessarily and rather sarcastically, I thought) that, if it snaps, well, you can say goodbye to effective administration of expert cunnilingus, that�s for damn sure as hiccups. (on a side note, if anyone would like to offer my lower face a chance to live the rest of its short life to the full in this manner, please e-mail). I ask him what the risk of this actually was and he said he�d done �loads� (it transpires to be fifteen) and that he �hadn�t knowingly paralysed anyone yet�. �KNOWINGLY?!� What if he�s paralysed all fifteen and they�re just keeping it from him to spare his feelings?

But it seems there�s nothing else to be done. I didn�t ask him if it would affect my party trick of �gleeking� at will, but I will get a nice scar, which, those of you who know me best will know, pleases me in weirdest of ways. Long time to go though � 3 months until the tests and then probably several decades until the op. The gland lives to fight another day.