2002-10-15 - 6:39 p.m.

In none-functioning saliva gland news, today�s visit to the hospital that time forgot proved less traumatic than expected. Despite them being clean out of fresh leeches and all of the blood-letting rooms being apparently occupied, they were going to go ahead with the old �injecting iodine into the saliva ducts� trick, which in truth sounded about as comfortable as falling backwards onto ornate bath-taps. Despite this, I was half looking forward to it as I hoped it might at least allow me to orally emit purple liquid at will and clean up on the Halloween Party costume contest circuit, by going as the, er, incredible purple liquid dribbling man. All such thoughts were banished from my mind, though, as they instead took a cursory look at me and plumped for the old �immediately removing part of your face� trick. It�s yer typical inflamed submandible gland, innit? Bleedin� submandibles.

Immediate in NHS speak means, of course, two weeks, which is still pretty quick compared to the decade and a half I�d been braced for. My consultant is perceptibly hott for this operation, describing it variously as �lovely� because you (by which I sincerely hope he means �he�) can �see all the nerves and muscles�, and �wonderfully anatomical�, though I assume most operations on humans are, unless you�re having your aura removed or demons exorcised. Once again, we went through the risks, and once again he cited the old ex-cricketer turned TV personality who is the shining model of the worst case scenario and whose speech patterns only slightly resemble those of John Merrick with a Yorkshire accent. The estimated size of the residual scar has grown slightly (I still couldn�t persuade him to customize it), as has the outside chance of lower facial paralysis (from �almost never� to �maybe one in forty�) but other than that, a week on Monday, we�re good to go, and I get to spend four days on a hospital ward doing whatever it is you do on hospital wards. I take it there�ll be personal TV�s and internet access and Playstation units and, I don�t know, a video jukebox.

On relaying the news, my mother, the nurse, was a veritable tidal wave of concern, though most of that seemed to be directed at whether I was in possession of a presentable washbag, and if she was required to do any emergency pyjama buying. I assured her she wasn�t, but she seemed insistent on my having a spare set �in case I vomited everywhere�. My mother is notorious in her irrational lack of faith in my being able to control any of my bodily excreta, and this is just a logical extension of her constant donations to me of diarrhoea medication, which she pushes like an insistent but bowel-conscious ghetto crack dealer.

Anyway, far be it from me to be responsible for sullying the family name by looking shabby in pre-op. Obviously, for generations we�ve been people who�ve had the appropriate attire when checking in for a stint on the ward � nighties, moccasin slippers, spare sets of non-vomit drenched pyjamas, you name it. As my personal hospital visit stylist, she�s already on the case � the fashion this season is towards �substantial but not too elaborate� dressing gowns, a little off the shoulder perhaps, so as not to irritate the infected area. No doubt it�s what they�re all wearing on the burn units of Paris and the Urology departments of Milan. She also warned me to leave all my valuables at home, as presumably some people are just faking convalescing from major operations and are whipping the watches off your wrist as soon as the anaesthetic kicks in and the consultant turns his back.

Crime, fashion, intrigue and a washbag I�m not ashamed of�now here�s a hospital drama that�s got everything.