Well here we go again. Time for another thrilling instalment in the saga that keeps on giving, and this one is just in time for Christmas! So crack open the Baileys, raid the kids’s selection packs, snuggle up in your festive jim-jams and prepare to be entertained and enthralled by yet another chapter in my hilarious tale of woe.
Since talking about my resurrection in the last post (and being told off by my Mum for blasphemy), I’ve noticed that there are in fact more than just a couple of similarities between myself and the Messiah. I have 13 followers on my LinkedIn business page for a start, and I’m also really good at feeding a crowd on a budget. Sadly, I’ve yet to develop any water-into-wine skills, which let’s face it, are the only really useful God skills to have, but I figure if I carry on drinking wine in the quantities that I am at the moment, it won’t be too long before the magic kicks in (and it’d better do because running out of wine is NOT an option when you have twins). In an effort to keep an eye on the competition, I’ve now read a fair bit of Jesus’ ghostwritten blog, and I have to say my non-ghostwritten blog is tons better, there are a load more laughs for a start, and not as many rules. I also had a bit of a foray into his Dad’s Old Testament God blog but gave up pretty quickly because who wants to read about a Burning Bush? Blackened tits are more than enough for most people.
Anyhow, I told you in my previous hilariously entertaining blog post that the last appointment with my dishy consultant was probably going to be my FINAL EVER appointment because it was likely I was going to be declared fully healed and then demoted to the dullsville status of a yawno non-patient. I actually felt quite sad at the prospect of being discharged, and not just because it meant that I wouldn’t see my dishy consultant again. By this time I’d grown quite attached to my celebrity status, the regular bed rests and the totally legal and mildly hallucinogenic drugs that made my otherwise tedious and nondescript life exciting, and I was feeling a bit despondent about having to give them all up.
That said, despite being mostly sad, I was also a bit secretly relieved because if I WAS completely discharged then at least I wouldn’t have to write any more of this sodding blog. I could finally lay it to rest, happy to have made a significant contribution to the literary canon, and confident that in time I would be called on to pick up my Near Life Achievement Award from the Literati. I would have done my bit for services to entertainment and so could use my remaining time on earth to search for hidden rocks, sew badges onto a stained Beavers jumper and aggressively bid for richer people’s cast offs on eBay. Wonderful.
However, the sad fact of the matter is that sometimes events conspire against us, and what should have been the last post (accompanied by a mournful bugle) is now merely number 16 in a saga that puts even Homer to shame (and no, I’m not talking about the fat guy in the cartoon). As a Classics lecturer, there’s nothing I don’t know about literary epic and although there aren’t nearly as many gods or as many wars in my saga as in the Iliad, I’m hoping that a dishy consultant with a God complex and my ongoing battle with the flab will suffice for now.
Anyway after my last op, you’ll remember my dishy consultant had unexpectedly popped down to see me in the touch-and-go ward and said he might have to do ANOTHER fat graft to plump up my left tit a bit more, and of course I was delighted at the prospect. I decided that I was DEFINITELY going to be having more lipo so I started doing even more running in an effort to lose a bit more fat from out of my tit and therefore make more more lipo a dead cert.
To this end, I picked up the pace and started running four or five times a week through the summer, sometimes on my own, but often with my run wanker mates who were all nearly as hilarious as me. We weren’t dumb enough (or good enough) to sign up to halfs and marathons like all the proper hardcore running wankers in the club, but we did like a challenge and wanted to up the running stakes, so we decided to introduce the best run ever, the now infamous ‘Wine Run’.
The wine run was meticulously planned and involved running a route through town which passed by each run wanker’s house. Our long suffering run-wanker-widow-husbands were on wine duty and as we ran to each house on the route we were treated to a glass of wine (or two) and some nibbles. Then we ran to the next house where the next well-trained run-wanker-widow-husband presented us with more wine and nibbles. There were eight wine stops in total and we were so good at planning the route that we even managed to squeeze in a pub stop half way round. At the pub we got maximum respect from all the non-running-wankers in the beer garden who thought that our wine run was the best thing they’d ever seen. There was a bit of an argument in the pub about who could drink the most so two of my run wanker mates downed pints to prove a point. It was awesome. It took us four hours to run 5k and we were all pissed as newts by the time we got to the last house, but we did run the whole way at a cracking pace, although admittedly not always in a straight line.
The last stop of the wine run was my house, and while Porl dished out the booze my kids laughed hysterically at all the pissed up rowdy women who were shouting in the garden. Then to end the night properly, we all ran to the kebab van in town, accompanied by Frog in his pyjamas, where we ordered chips and kebabs and treated Frog to his first ever doner. We quite rightly got maximum respect from everyone in the kebab van queue for being fucking hardcore, especially as one of us had fallen onto their FACE during the wine run and was sporting a black eye (see pic outside the kebab van). Because it was the best run ever it now looks set to become an annual event. Awesome. Whilst pissed we also all decided to go on holiday together so we’re heading off to Palma in June. Pissed up run wankers on tour. I can’t actually wait.
(BTW, if you’re a run wanker and running with a yawno running club what just does plain old boring old running, why not spice things up a bit by introducing your own version of our wine run? You can pay us for licensing and for a small additional fee we’ll even come with you).
No doubt with all this talk of fitness and exercise, you’ll want to know how I’m shaping up after all the exercise and surgery. I’m not going to bore on too much about my new healthy lifestyle because healthy lifestyles are as dull as fuck and I’m not Gwyneth Paltrow, but I have included some pics so you can see how my body has changed over the past three or so years. A lot of my new streamlined status is due to my boob jobs, tummy tuck and fat grafting of course (thanks dishy consultant)- but most of it is actually down to running, riding, boxing, being a Mum and not eating (as much) crap. Liposuction is a sculpting procedure, not weight loss surgery, and so if I hadn’t have done all the exercise, toned up and lost the weight, I don’t think the lipo would have made much difference to my shape to be honest.
(Top row- from left to right: Me at 38 weeks preggers with the baldy rats- I put on 4 stones during my pregnancy which wasn’t bad going I thought; Me just before starting the Couch to 5k course in Jan 2017; Me in May 2017 just before my first breast reconstruction/fat graft op; Me in Nov 2019)
(Bottom row: Me in Nov 2019.
The exercise has made me a lot slimmer, stronger and more toned, and I’ve lost over 3 stones in weight. I now run twice a week every week without fail and three times a week if I can manage it. I run between 15 and 25k every week, go to a boxercise class once a week, ride my horse once a week and run around after the kids all day every fucking day. The combination of doing all this has meant that I’m now fitter and healthier in my thirties than I was in my twenties, although I’m still not as thin or as attractive which just shows you how shit getting old is.
Anyway, I guess we’d better get on with the saga before we’re all Nearly Dead from boredom. My last blog post saw me doing my best teacher’s stare at a rough-as-old-boots moaner having had another fat graft op. I think that brought the total number of operations I’d had by this point up to 14, but I can’t be sure. It’s my dishy consultant’s job to keep track of all the surgery admin and to be honest I’m grateful that it is, because I can barely manage to keep track of the monthly shop even though it mostly consists of pot noodles and Disaronno.
As you know, my dishy consultant was an uptight and slightly forbidding jobsworth on theatre days, but on check up days he was totes chillaxed and up for the bants, and today was no exception. He was in the reception area when I got there and when he saw me he gave me a big smile (because he loves me) and went to get my notes from the trolley. My medical file was proper huge now and he did a comedy struggle when he lifted them up. It wasn’t the best performance to be honest, the Chuckle Brothers could have done it better, but I laughed anyway because I’m a nice person and it was kinda cute.
Once I was in his little consulting room I told him that although no more fat had leeched out (despite my best running efforts) my left boob was still not quite as good as my right boob and he said this was because there was more skin in the other boob and he couldn’t get them to match exactly unless he put some more skin into my left one. He looked a bit hopeful at this point but I definitely didn’t want to indulge his Hannibal Lecter tendencies again, so I quickly refused the suggestion of another skin graft and told him that what I really wanted was another fat graft.
I did my best Daily Mail sad face whilst looking despondently at my left boob and asked humbly if there was anything that could be done. One thing that any consultant loves is being asked if there’s anything that they can do. This is because the one thing they all love doing is proving how important and clever they are by doing things that you think can’t be done. So by saying that I wasn’t sure if he could do anything about it, and calling into question his abilities to do incredibly difficult proper clever dick surgery, I was almost guaranteed to get more lipo, or at least that was the plan.
And of course it worked! Which just shows you that it’s always worth calling someone’s professionalism into question if it’s going to benefit you in some way. My main philosophy in life is ‘if you don’t ask you don’t get’ and so far it’s worked out pretty well for me, seems everyone likes a cheeky fucker.
Anyway, I crossed my fingers and sent up a ton of silent prayers while he inspected my tit, and then to my great relief and gratitude he said that it wouldn’t hurt to have another crack at it because after all I needed something to write about, and then he gave me a knowing smile which just shows you how much of a fan of my blog he is. And quite right too. He’d be nothing without me, and he knows it.
He said he could definitely do another fat graft and then asked where he should take it from. I waggled my croquet wings at him (remember I am middle class now and live in Petersfield and we don’t do Bingo here- the chav games are for Portsmouth), but he just laughed. I think he thought I was joking but I wasn’t. I really, really do want the flab taken from my upper arms because my legs and tummy are fine now thanks to the running, the lipo and the tummy tuck but my arms are complete bastards. Despite the fact that I go boxing every week and have even bought my own huge men’s boxing gloves to spar with because they are heavier than the delicate little lady boxing gloves we use in class, not much fat loss or toning up is happening and this is a source of great annoyance to me.
After laughing unkindly at my deadly serious and very sensible suggestion of sucking out the fat from my upper arms, my dishy consultant started grabbing fistfuls of my stomach flab but decided that he wasn’t going to be able to take any more from there because there was no actual fat left and it was just loose skin.
How dare he say I was loose! There is nothing the least bit loose about any part of my anatomy (despite having twins) and I was quite rightly affronted. However, I was also a bit paranoid because it’s not nice when a proper clever dick dishy consultant plastic surgeon tells you that you’ve got loose skin, because it could be that he was actually right. So as soon as I got home I started Googling ‘how do I get rid of loose skin’ and lo and behold- apparently the only way to get rid of it permanently is through surgery! Ha! So that’s his his game, I bet he tells all his patients they’ve got loose skin as a way to keep himself in work. Well I can’t afford to have any of this done privately (I live in Petersfield remember) so I’ll just have to somehow contrive to have another Near Death experience which requires loose skin removal as part of my recovery. Let me know if you have any suggestions.
Once my dishy consultant realised he couldn’t take the flab from my stomach or flanks he started grabbing at the outside of my thighs and then the inside of my thighs. I was dismayed that even though I’ve been running and riding loads he said he’d probably take it from the inside of my thighs as there was still plenty of fat there. Which is a bit annoying actually because thighs are usually hidden (unless you’re from Portsmouth) whereas upper arms are often on show, so it actually makes much more sense from the point of view of improving my quality of life to take it from my upper arms. Sucking the fat from my croquet wings would also massively benefit my dishy consultant because every time someone compliments me on my gorgeous toned arms I can refer them to him and thus keep him in work. It’s a win win for everyone so I can’t really see any reason at all why fat should be taken from my thighs and not my arms. Hint hint.
Once I’d put my clothes back on, my dishy consultant booked me in for another op and said it would be in 4 -6 months time, so March/April 2020. This was an ideal time-frame as this should give me plenty of time to lose all the fat from my legs and even better, I could show off my new slimmed-down-by-surgery arms on my run wanker holiday in June. Fabulous.
So I decided to turn into a Proper Run Wanker in an effort to lose more fat from my left tit and all the fat from my thighs, thus guaranteeing croquet wing reduction surgery in six months time. To this end I now get up at the ludicrous time of 7am on a Sunday morning to run a cross country 10k with my run wanker friends. Once upon a time I used to get IN at 7am on a Sunday which just shows you how much more fun my life used to be.
So now, every Sunday morning I drive to the middle of nowhere and meet up with a load of other complete dickheads in order to run through mud and up hills. I spend the first half of the run hating myself for what I’ve become, and the second half of the run hating everyone else for being faster than me, but I still do it. Every sodding week. Proper Run Wanker for sure. And despite this, all that’s actually changed is that I now have MASSIVE calf muscles. So I look like a bloody footballer from the waist down (which admittedly is better than looking like one from the waist up) but which is still far from optimum in terms of the look I’m going for (think ethereal, floaty and feminine). FML. I’ve noticed NO reduction AT ALL to my inner thigh flab and my tits also seem to have stabilised so I’m WELL pissed off. I’m hoping that I’ll start to see some proper results soon because I REALLY REALLY need croquet wing reduction surgery. (hint hint).
My next op is due for April/May 2020 and will most definitely be the last one, unless I can wrangle some loose skin removal surgery. Tbf I am pretty good at wrangling surgery so you never know, you might be in luck and have even more blog posts to come in the New Year. In the mean time, I wish you all a Merry Christmas and a healthy New Year and please do add ‘Vicky’s Croquet Wing Reduction Surgery’ to your wish list for Santa.