29th Sep 2019 | 12 minute read

Dirty Utility

Hello y’all, sorry it’s taken me a while to write this one up, I’ve spent most of the summer trying to stop the kids from killing each other, which in hindsight was a bit of a missed opportunity to make some money. I could have had a pretty good racket going if I’d just let them get on with it and asked the neighbours to place bets on who would survive the longest. The clear favourite would obviously be Grump- she’s much tougher (and smarter) than the boys. In fact, the other day she demonstrated this with a genius revenge move which even impressed me (and I’m not easily impressed when it comes to kids). The boys refused to let her join in with their yawno lego game so she got her own back by telling them to put their shoes on because we were going to soft play. It was nearly bedtime and we definitely weren’t going to soft play. Cue howls of anguish from the boys and cackling laughter from Grump when the boys realised they’d been tricked. She’s only three and a half- that’s pretty clever, huh?

Anyway, back to the never-ending saga of my Near Death, which is still apathetically trundling on – much like my marriage. Now I don’t want to be one of those self-aggrandising, smug wankers who whimpers on about their ‘journey’ because I’m not a reality TV star (yet) BUT…. my god it’s been a long journey. It’s now been over THREE YEARS since I resurrected, but unlike Jesus I’ve had to do all the grunt work of writing about it myself. I don’t have a team of disciples to write about it for me while I lazy around in a cave, or waft about in a garden. But despite this, I’ve no doubt that just like Jesus’ ghost written blog, this one will also pass the test of time- and who knows? Maybe it will even start a religion?

As you’ll know if you’ve been keeping up with my hilariously entertaining blog, I’d last seen my dishy consultant in January 2019 and had managed to wrangle a bit more lipo out of him. Result! I was well within my rights to have more lipo of course because he’d stabbed my left tit repeatedly at my previous appointment, and so giving me a bit more lipo was the least he could do.

The fat graft operation was scheduled for the beginning of July, and was once again going to be carried out in day surgery. The day before my operation, I received a telephone call from the hospital saying that I was FIRST on the list (as I should be) and was asked to be in theatre admissions for 6.30am. My mum gave me a lift to the hospital, so this time I was bang on time for my appointment and didn’t need to park in the staff only bit of the car park and use my genius NHS worker disguise.

The nursey took me through to the little interview room where she checked all my details, and this time they were ALL correct! Awesome. It’s only taken the NHS admin THREE YEARS to get its shit together and I was impressed. My NOK details were right, the details of the operation were right and they even gave me the right colour ‘danger of instant death’ allergy wrist band. I was thrilled.

I was even more thrilled to see how my medical file had grown since my last appointment. It was proper, proper massive now and when the nursey looked at it she suggested that I should have shares in the hospital. I thought that this was an excellent idea until I remembered that there was not likely to be much profit in having shares in the NHS so immediately dismissed the idea.

Then she checked my height, weight and pulse and I was super chuffed to find that I now had a low resting pulse rate. Thanks to all the running, riding and boxing, I now had the resting pulse of an athlete. It was 59. Normal pulse is between 60 and 100 so you can see how much of an athlete I’d become. I was basically an Olympian.

Once I’d changed into my sexy green pressure stockings, hospital gown and unstained dressing gown (I checked this time) I went through to sit in theatre admissions. I was the only one there so I nabbed the only fully reclining recliner chair and snuggled on down with my book. As usual the BBC news was on and it was all about the England Women’s football team who had more caps, more wins, more talent and more brains than the men’s football team and yet were paid far less. Funny that.

Then I was called in to see the most THOROUGH flakey strudel practice consultant registrar that I had ever seen. She listed EVERY single possible negative outcome of the operation. Sepsis, infection, anaesthetic risks, lumps, fat necrosis, uneven grafting, scarring, the list went on and on and just as I was about to cancel the op cos it all sounded a bit worrying, she changed her tune and told me that the risk of any of these things ACTUALLY happening was miniscule and gave me a broad grin.

And then to my great delight I was introduced to the loveliest man I’d ever met in my life (apart from my dishy consultant obvs) he was my anaesthetist and he was the most softly-spoken man in the WHOLE WORLD. He had the soothing voice and relaxing manner of a hypnotherapist, and was VERY handsome. I could have sat and listened to (and looked at) him all day. Unfortunately, he was wearing a bright red gilet at the time, which somewhat destroyed the image of peace and tranquility, and was I thought, a bit of an odd choice of clothing for a hospital, but he was a proper clever dick so I just put it down to him being a bit eccentric. He was very smiley, very kind and very polite and I felt instantly calm in his presence. I reckon he must have saved the NHS trillions of pounds in anaesthetic because I bet he put loads of patients under just by talking to them.

Once I’d slept walked back into theatre admissions, a nursey came to get me to take me to theatre. I was slightly put out by this because I hadn’t actually seen my dishy consultant yet and thought that it might be kinda important to see him, seeing as how he was going to be operating on me. I mentioned that I hadn’t been felt up or drawn on yet and the nursey gave me a knowing look, and then agreed to let me see him, and led me into the tiny consulting room where I waited for him to turn up.

As was usual on surgery day, my dishy consultant was in business mode so there was no banter or small talk- I stripped off and he had a good old feel of my boob and then did a VERY stern face and exclaimed ‘you’ve lost all the fat I put in!’ I felt a bit bad about that. I told you how I’d been really getting into my running, and it seems that the outcome of this was that I’d lost a lot of the fat that had been grafted into my boob. There was now a full cup size difference between my breasts, and my left one was now even more lopsided than before. I felt awful about having undone all his hard work and making him do a stern face just because I was being healthy, but then I remembered that over the past three years I had pretty much single-handedly kept him in work, and so actually he should be grateful. My only worry was that wasting a dishy consultant’s time was a criminal offence like wasting police time is. Still, I couldn’t help feeling that if he’d done it properly in the first place we wouldn’t have this problem.

Anyway, once he’d finished doing his stern face and had checked me out properly, he got out his superior quality marker pen (black this time) and commenced drawing the circles- he did them everywhere. My torso had map like contours all over it by the time he’d finished. I did observe that he didn’t draw any arrows this time though. I guess after reading my blog he was feeling a bit more confident about his ability to remember which tit he was supposed to be working on. Or maybe he was relying on his excessively thorough flakey strudel practice consultant registrar to remind him?

Anyway, there were that many circles that it was clear that he was going to take the flab from pretty much everywhere. Abdomen, outside thighs, inside thighs, flanks. I was very happy until he explained that he was only going to take small amounts from each area. Obviously I strongly suggested that he should take as much as possible, but he just did his stern look again. I don’t think he likes it when I offer my own medical opinions.

Then I went off to the holding pen and was surprised to find that this time I was in a different pen and there were no uplifting posters of waterfalls or rain forests. Instead, there was a crazy neon poster of the streets of New York, complete with yellow taxis and skyscrapers. Well that wasn’t soothing at all. Perhaps my entourage had finally realised that I wasn’t the sort of nomark patient that needed to be kept calm, and were finally ramping up the party zone atmosphere?

There was another patient in the pen with me but as she was reading a copy of Bella (not Chat as she should have been), I just ignored her until a nursey came in and started talking to us. The patient told the nursey that she was a copper and trained other coppers in riot protocol. How cool is that? I instantly forgave her for reading Bella and not Chat and asked her a ton of nosy questions about riot control (remember I have twins).

Then another patient came in, and this one was even more interesting than the riot training copper because the conversation had somehow turned to surgical robots (I’m not sure how we got on to this tbh) and the new patient told us how her dad had had his stomach operated on by a robot, but that unfortunately the robot arm had slipped and cut open his pancreas!! Apparently her dad isn’t doing that well really, but as well as can be expected for someone who’s been sliced open by a robot. Me and my new copper bestie LOVED this story and we exchanged well chuffed, but slightly shocked looks, and then voiced loudly how we preferred non robotic consultants and asked the nursey to double check our notes to make sure we hadn’t been allocated to a robocon.

Then I sadly had to leave the fun party holding pen (loads better than the loser calm holding pen btw) and went into theatre where I was delighted to be reunited with my softly spoken, handsome hypno-naesthetist. This time he was in scrubs rather than in his odd red gilet so it was even more calming to be in his presence.

I undid the back of my gown, scrambled up on the trolley and laid back. I bloody love the bit where you get anaesthetised. The anaesthetic makes you all woozy, and you feel really comfortable and relaxed, and then they put the mask over your face and you just drift off. When my sister (who’s almost as hilarious as me) had an operation to remove a hernia she solemnly intoned ‘going, going, going, still going, still going, gone’ in a comedy voice as she drifted off. I didn’t do this though because I am the intelligent one in the family and didn’t want my handsome hypno-naesthetist thinking I was a fucking idiot.

When I woke up, I was in the touch-and-go ward and once I’d come round from the anaesthetic I had a lovely time chatting to my touch-and-go nursey. The anaesthetic always makes me REALLY chatty so I asked the poor woman all manner of personal questions and told her all about how I Nearly Died. Then, guess what? Joy of joys, my dishy consultant popped by! He never does that so I was delighted, and was looking forward to having a nice chat and asking him all manner of personal questions. Sadly, I wasn’t able to as he was clearly very busy, so I just shook his hand (it seemed like the right thing to do) and thanked him for plumping up my left tit. He told me that the op had gone well but that I might need some more fat grafting in a couple of months’ time! Boom shanks- more lipo! Brilliant! He said he’d see me in three months to check me over and then he’d decide whether it needed to be plumped up again. He also told me that he’d removed the small skin tag that was left on the scar from my tummy tuck. What a total legend. He’d obviously picked up on my new affection for my hypno-anaesthetist and was trying to get back to the top of my favourite-proper-clever-dick-list.

I wasn’t on the touch-and-go ward for very long after that because I was VERY chatty, so I was soon shipped off back to the patient dispatch centre. I was given the customary cup of tea, but this time I had been assigned my very own mug! It said ‘good morning, beautiful’ on it and I revelled in the fact that my natural beauty was rightfully recognised. I took a sip of tea from my special mug and then looked around to see where I’d been parked up. I was horrified to see that I’d been dumped outside a door that said ‘dirty utility’ on it! How rude! Clearly they knew all about my personal life from my huge medical file, but I found it very offensive that they would so blatantly draw attention to it in this way. I’m a celebrity patient after all and should definitely not have been parked outside the ‘dirty utility’ section of the hospital. I made a mental note to complain to the board.

I was then given a stale tuna sandwich, some biscuits (not luxury) another cup of tea in my special ‘good morning, beautiful’ mug and a glass of water. I obviously ignored the water because water is as boring as shit and not fitting for someone as interesting as me.

Once I’d had my sandwich and finished the tea in my special ‘good morning, beautiful’ mug I was removed from the ‘dirty utility’ area and sat down in a non reclining recliner chair. A brilliant, larger-than-life, proper funny nursey was assigned to me and started asking me all about my surgery. I told her all about how I Nearly Died and my many boob jobs. She was absolutely brilliant and started shimmying around the dispatch centre to show me how I should show off my new tits in the sun. She was really good at shimmying too and I learned loads. Love Island here I come.

Then she got me another cup of tea in my special ‘good morning, beautiful’ mug and came back to have a good old chat about moral values and equality and diversity. We discussed LGBT, racism, and lefty politics to our hearts’ content and agreed that if people were a bit nicer to each other we’d all be a lot better off. Then we got on to Boris and agreed that the rule about being nice to people didn’t apply to him, because he’s a cunt.

Then joy of joys my new bestie riot copper mate appeared and sat down down in a non reclining reclining chair next to me. I was still VERY talkative so asked her all manner of questions about riot training, and then proceeded to tell her all about how I’d Nearly Died- I hadn’t got far into my tragic tale before she turned away from me and threw up everywhere and had to be moved away. Gutted.

I think all the talking must have worn me out and I suddenly felt really sleepy, so I reclined my non-reclining recliner chair (after a struggle), got out my fluffy purple non-stained dressing gown, made it into a blanket and snuggled on down for a nap. It was basically the best day of my life (apart from the dirty utility bit) and much like being on an all-inclusive holiday- I even had the wrist band!

I nodded off for a bit, but was soon woken up by some more patients arriving at the dispatch centre. I sat up so I could check out the competition. I recognised a couple of them from theatre admissions but there was also a new one that I hadn’t seen before.

The new one was as rough-as-old-boots and a proper moaner. She huffed and puffed, and moaned on and on, and tried to make out she was all feeble. She looked round and saw that another patient had been given a yoghurt so moaned on about how she never had one, until my larger-than-life nursey bought her one too. Then she moaned about the flavour. Once she’d done moaning about the yoghurt, she moaned about the lack of WiFi. And then the bloody pacing started. Pacing and moaning. It was intensely irritating.

The problem was that she now had a captive audience (none of us seemed to be going anywhere soon) and she clearly felt that it was important to moan loudly so that we could all commiserate with her. The nurseys just rolled their eyes (I expect they’re used to all the mock pain and moaning from working on the men’s ward).

Once she started moaning about the stale sandwiches (hello- they’re free) and the fact that her tea wasn’t strong enough, I’d had enough. It really gets on my wick when people moan about the FREE healthcare they’re getting and I couldn’t listen to it without saying something. So I asked her loudly if she realised that it wasn’t a hotel and gave her one of my best teacher stares. I don’t like picking random fights with strangers (much) but I do think these ungrateful entitled idiots need to be educated. If anyone needed to be parked outside dirty utility it was her.

AND THEN, when a nursey finally came to dispatch her (not soon enough) she had the audacity to stand up and say “I’m a celebrity get me out of here!!” Bloody Cheek!!! I’M THE BLOODY CELEBRITY round here! How dare she say that and steal MY line. I gave her another filthy look.

Because I’m used to all the hospital routines by now  I knew that it took ages for my drugs to come up from the pharmacy and so I’d asked my larger-than-life nursey friend to check that they’d been ordered as soon as I’d been dumped outside dirty utility. The drugs took ages to arrive as usual but once they’d got there I asked my larger-than-life nursey to call my mum cos I knew I’d be dispatched now that I had the drugs. Despite this it still took TWO HOURS for me to actually be dispatched which just shows you how fond the NHS staff are of me. Probably because I don’t moan.

Anyway, I eventually got back to my mum’s to recover and spent a happy couple of hours chugging on Tramadol and wittering away to myself. Recovery took ages as usual, but fortunately it was the very end of the academic year so I didn’t have to go back to work after my sick note expired and could lazy around to my heart’s content. The kids got in the way of my lazying around of course but as every half decent parent will know, Netflix is an excellent babysitter.

The bruises took a couple of days to come out properly but when they did it was spectacular- I looked like a painting by Rothko! (only less dull) I was really sore for a while and the swelling was painful, but my boobs were more even and my thighs were thinner so I really didn’t mind at all. Unfortunately there was still a fair bit of fat left on my body, so I decided to start running again as soon as I could in order to procure a bit more lipo. I’m due back to see my dishy consultant in October and I reckon if I increase my distances, squeeze my left breast on a daily basis and drop him regular emails to tell him how much I love my hypno-naesthetist- the mixture of fat loss and professional rivalry should make more lipo a dead cert. I will of course let you know what he says.

Hope you’re still enjoying reading about the tragic tale of my Near Life- I STILL haven’t made it onto Phil and Hollie’s sofa (not for want of trying) so please do share the blog as widely as you can. I’ll send you a tit pic if you do.

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