2002-10-28 - 11:37 a.m.

Oooh. Extreme weather. Well, relatively extreme considering this is a country whose annual climate can be boiled down to �Rain, with sunny spells�. Anyway, we�ve had 80mph gusts that have wreaked their windy havoc throughout the land, causing death by falling tree and the like. Someone on TV this morning said �at least it�s exciting�, though I doubt anyone lying in an upturned car with a jagged branch lodged between their ribs would be in too much of a hurry to agree. Such is the lack of extreme weather in this country, in fact, that we have to send out people along the lines of preposterous self-publicist, er, I mean investigative journalist D*nald MacInt*re to make documentaries of extreme weather that occurs elsewhere. This is the man, remember, whose original series of undercover investigative work invited about three lawsuits for flagrant inaccuracy, and basically involved lots of shots of him stripping off to wire up his hidden mics to well-toned pecs especially for da ladeez. His brilliant follow-up was a bid to reveal that there was street crime in Brixton (REALLY? I�m just stunned!) by hanging around dark alleyways speaking into an expensive mobile phone whilst tapping away into his titanium Apple laptop. He got mugged, but only after he�d followed some chump into his flat and almost begged him to relieve him of his electronics, and when the guy pulled a knife, he crapped his bulletproof suit and did a runner. Way to go. In extreme weather, he hangs around the bleak Arctic tundra and says things like, �Er�it�s quite cold.� And I wonder why I can�t get anywhere in journalism.

I guess dying with a branch through your nethers is what�s known as coming to a stick-y end.

So I�m just waiting for the call from the hospital to let me know what time I have to go in for my op. They just have to check they actually have space / a bed / a member of staff trained in doing this procedure, that kind of thing. Since I�ll be laid up for four days, I�m trying to choose reading matter � surely the most important cultural marker you can brandish on a ward after a dashingly stylish dressing gown. I�m rereading the diaries of Quentin Crisp which could mark me out for strange looks, and I doubt my handbook on how to get through terminal illness, �On Dying and Denying� would win me too many friends either. I�m thinking �Bonfire of the Vanities� because then you�re covered should the conversation swing round to consumerist attitudes in the 80s OR Bruce Willis films, plus it�s really, really thick. I don�t know. What�s the ultimate hospital novel? Solzhenitsyn�s �Cancer Ward�? �One Flew Over the Cuckoo�s Nest�? Maybe the screenplay of �Carry On Doctor�.

I guess next time I write I�ll be operating on 75% of my optimum spittle capacity. We�ve had some good times, my saliva gland and me � the palate moistening, the gleeking, the breaking down of mouthfuls of food into chewable morsels (remember those dry biscuits in �86?) � ah, the memories! But all good things must come to an end, and our relationship had hit a definite plateau. We have to go our separate ways � me, onwards into an uncertain future tainted by my mouth being one quarter more dry, and you�well, rotting away in some surgical glandular refuse container, I suppose. But we�ll always have Paris.

More as soon as I get back � hopefully avoiding that whole scenario of living my life out being fed cold soup through a funnel. Any good vibes sent this way on Tuesday would be gratefully received. Pictures of the scar will be available � money to the usual address.

OK, Dr Nick, I think I�m ready.