Hello everyone! It hurts me to have to tell you this, but sadly the tale of how I Nearly Died is fast drawing to a close and there are only a couple more hilariously entertaining posts left in the series. Believe me, I’m much sadder about this than you are because the money making opportunities that my left tit has unexpectedly presented me with are fast diminishing and I STILL haven’t gone viral (despite the fact that going viral is ironically what led me to start writing this blog in the first place).
There has been some good news though as I managed to make it onto the front page AND the centrefold of CHAT magazine #lifegoal #lifedeathprizes which goes some way to reaffirming my celebrity status (click here to read the article). It pains me greatly that my story was first published in CHAT and not Tatler (as it obviously should have been) but I take some comfort in the fact that at least I’m one step closer to snuggling up to Phil and Hollie on their sofa. Please do share this blog far and wide (even if you think it’s crap) because nothing says ‘I’m a minor celebrity’ more than desperation and you never know, if you help the blog to go properly viral I could even end up on ‘Love Island’ which would make Porl VERY proud (he loves a bit of Love Island as you know).
My last post was published AGES ago, sorry about that. I’ve been exceptionally busy potty training Thug n’ Grump which basically involved watching them literally piss themselves laughing for a couple of weeks. I’ve also been decorating my overpriced house (I live in Petersfield remember) and working on a couple of client projects (I’m a professional writer don’tcha know?) Anyhow, the last post left me lying in bed at my mum’s, drinking hot chocolate and dreaming of a thigh gap. My last reconstruction operation involved having liposuction to the inside of my thighs and the siphoned out flab had then been grafted onto my left boob to plump it up a bit. This was the second time that flab had been injected into my left tit and I was a bit worried (and slightly hopeful) that I’d end up like a lopsided Dolly Parton (everyone needs a USP after all) but sadly it turned out that this was not to be.
In the two and a half years that I’ve known my dishy consultant he’s subjected me to all manner of proper clever dick (and some slightly bizarre) medical procedures and I’ve found out quite a bit about him in the process. I’ve noticed for example that he seems to take great delight in moving flab from where it’s supposed to be to somewhere else entirely. I’m not sure why he is quite so obsessed with putting things in the wrong places but expect that like most fetishes it stems from early childhood. I imagine that as a young boy he spent many a happy hour relentlessly moving mashed potato around his dinner plate, or removing and then reinserting the stuffing in his cuddly toys. I haven’t actually asked him about his childhood because I am not his therapist but I don’t think I can be too far off the mark.
When it comes to moving the flab around, I’m not entirely sure how my dishy consultant does it because each time I’ve had it done I have epically failed to stay awake during surgery. My dishy consultant did once explain to me what happens in theatre and as far as I can remember from his brief and overly simplified explanation (he was talking to me remember), it basically involves some needles, a great deal of brute force and a massive syringe. I found out that he stabs the needle into my (very hard to find) flabby areas and then sucks up the excess flab into some sort of huge vat on wheels. Once the flab is in the vat he takes a couple of selfies with it (this is unconfirmed) and then does something proper clever dick and scientific in order to make the siphoned out fat in the vat suitable for transplantation.
Because I am an idiot, I like to imagine that the proper clever dick and scientific fat siphoning procedure involves my dishy consultant sitting on the lid of the wheeled fat vat and holding on tightly whilst his minions spin him round, faster and faster until all the fat in the vat is centrifuged. Then once he’s recovered from his dizziness and the flab is good to go I imagine he fills up his huge syringe with the centrifuged fat and injects it into my left boob with a flourish and a small bow.
One day my dishy consultant will write a guest blog post where he explains all the proper clever dick procedures that he does and hails me as being his best ever patient, and informs the world that the case of the blackened tit was the highlight of his career. This will obviously be AFTER I go on This Morning and achieve national celebrity status though- I’m not having my dishy consultant being invited onto Love Island instead of me. That would be a total travesty and downright rude.
Anyway, I digress, I know you all want to know whether my dishy consultant’s vat spinning and fat siphoning antics did indeed result in a thigh gap and I am very pleased to inform you that yes, yes they did. (Sort of). When I was back at home after the operation and could remove my bandages I discovered that I had loads of little injection marks from where my dishy consultant had obviously been merrily jabbing away with his needle. The holes were VERY neat and in a VERY straight line so I think he must practice needlepoint at home, he probably makes curtains or something. At first I had a LOT of swelling and I was covered in bandages from my knees up to my groin (mmmm sexy) so I wasn’t sure whether or not there was any real difference. The insides of my thighs were really bruised and tender underneath the bandages and this meant that my elusive thigh gap stayed elusive for a loooong time. In fact I had almost given up hope, but I kept thinking and praying and I’m very happy to say that once the swelling had eventually gone down my thighs were definitely (a bit) slimmer. Woop woop.
I’m not going to give my dishy consultant all of the credit for my thigh gap though, remember that by the time of the operation I was basically an Olympic standard runner and also regularly pranced about on Rowan (my twatty horse) which means that my calves, thighs and bum were pretty strong and toned (unlike the rest of me) before my dishy consultant even thought about proper clever dicking about with his fat siphoning.
However that said, I still had wobbly thighs and even though I did have a ton of muscle it was well hidden under all the flab, in fact from the waist down I was much like a body builder in a fat suit. What my dishy consultant did with his proper clever dick surgery was to take away some of the layers of fat to reveal the sculpted and perfectly toned muscles underneath, and if you feel the outside of my thighs now you would be hard pushed to find even the merest hint of a wobble. I’m not going to invite you to feel the INSIDES of my thighs because that would be rude, but if you were to have a quick grab you’d feel that they are definitely slimmer and if I’m wearing the right leg wear (eg jodhpurs, skinny jeans, leggings, gimp suit) you can see a very slight thigh gap, right at the bit where the tops of my thighs used to rub together. It isn’t quite the proper thigh gap that I had set my heart on so I was slightly dismayed but it was better than nothing and definitely required the four new pairs of celebratory jeans that I bought to show it off. (I managed to resist buying a new gimp suit- those things are damned expensive).
After I had healed up from the second fat graft operation I was very pleased to see that I had two equally sized and wonderfully perky boobs, slimmer legs, the merest hint of a thigh gap, a flatter tummy, more streamlined flanks and a minimal amount of scarring. My dishy consultant is not just a proper clever dick- he’s a goddamn genius- but don’t tell him I said that because I don’t want him to start getting above himself and weedling his way onto Phil and Hollie’s sofa with me. That sofa has only got room for one of us (unless he gives me a bit more liposuction) and as I am the best and most important person in this story it should obviously be me who gets to sit on it.
Now that I had matching boobs the only thing for my dishy consultant left to do was to have another crack at the nipple. Because my left boob was a mass of scar tissue from first having had the mastectomy and then the skin grafts, my dishy consultant wasn’t able to origami me a new nipple straight away. The last time that he had attempted to origami me a new nipple at the same time as doing the skin graft it had been an EPIC failure and the nipple had crusted over and then flaked off never to be seen again (I have my suspicions that the dog ate it). As neither of us wanted to be responsible for even more NHS wastage, my dishy consultant told me that he’d leave the origami nipple tweaking grand finale until after I’d healed up from all of the reconstruction procedures.
About three months after I’d had the second fat graft operation I went back to the plastics outpatients clinic so that my dishy consultant could check me over. As you know I love the plastics outpatients clinic because it’s a steam punk horror show and I usually enjoyed spending time peering at the circus of freaks over the top of my trashy magazine and earwigging on the nurse/patient conversations. This time sadly there was hardly anyone else in the waiting room at all and I couldn’t even find a trashy mag like Chat! to read. So I sat in silence trying futiley to get a signal on my phone so I could tell everyone on Facebook how I was in hospital (I didn’t have any pictures of my dinners to post).
Once I was called in to see my dishy consultant we had a chat about the final procedure to origami me a new nipple and I was told that it would involve having another skin graft. I agreed to be Hanniballed again but made my dishy consultant promise not to do the weird heavy breathing and muzzle wearing thing that he did last time. He reluctantly agreed and then excitedly informed me of how he intended to carry out the origami nipple procedure. His genius plan was to take the newly Hanniballed skin and stitch it over the site of the original skin graft (and no, I wasn’t entirely convinced either). This would (apparently) provide my dishy consultant with a nice new bit of skin with a good blood supply which, when healed completely, could be sliced into and twisted in on itself to make a brand new nipple.
By this time I’d had that many operations that even though I was VERY concerned about his fat moving fetish, his Hannibal Lecter tendencies, his obsession with blue marker pens and his (probable) theatre pop choreography- I also had to admit that against all the odds he had actually saved my life and made my body look a million times better than it did before I Nearly Died so I decided that I should probably just have a bit of faith and with this in mind I nodded his latest loopy idea through (whilst keeping my fingers crossed firmly behind my back).
Once I’d agreed to be Hanniballed again, my dishy consultant gave a huge grin, started rubbing his hands together and then told me quite matter of factly that the second skin graft would be taken from my groin.
Shut the Front Door! Say that again? My GROIN?
Is that a thing now? Obviously I wasn’t about to question his professional judgement or his proper clever dick qualifications but surely a groinal skin graft would have been a bit, well, pubic? Now I don’t mind hairy nipples, I think a bit of nipple hair as you head into middle age (shoot me now) is pretty common isn’t it? I’m not sure I wanted pubic nipples though. I know that big bushy eyebrows are a thing (god knows why) but bushy nipples? I really couldn’t see that taking off and if I am destined to end up on Love Island I’m not sure that having a single bushy nipple poking out of my skimpy bikini top was going to help with my game strategy.
So, as I’m sure you can imagine, when I turned up a couple of months later to theatre admissions to see my dishy consultant before my final skin graft operation I was more than a bit nervous. I wore my favourite giant pants (they had served me well up until now) and had even had a bit of a trim in a desperate attempt to avoid ending up with a boob merkin, but I have to admit I was still a bit panicky. I really, really, really didn’t want groin skin on my tit. I had been through so much over the past couple of years and I wept inwardly at the thought of the deplorable and humiliating end to the saga of my Near Death.
My concern must have shown on my face because when my dishy consultant flounced in with his superior quality blue marker pen he paused, stepped back to admire my playboy bunny body more fully and then declared in the voice of an angel- ‘let’s do a tummy tuck instead’- It was at this point that I told my dishy consultant that I loved him.
Of course I had imagined saying it to him a hundred times but it was his unanticipated suggestion of a tummy tuck and the relief that I wasn’t going to end up with a left tit covered in short and curlies that made me finally voice my feelings out loud. There was a couple of seconds of shocked silence (awkward) and then he quickly thanked me for my comment and beat a hasty retreat. If it hadn’t have been for his obsession with drawing blue arrows I don’t think I would have seen him again.
As it was the temptation of drawing all over me with his superior quality marker pen proved to be stronger than his instinct for survival and so after a couple of minutes he came back in and commenced his scribbling while we each did our best to avoid eye contact (cringe). I wanted to explain that it had just been a joke (kind of) and that I was happily married (most of the time) but in the end I just stayed quiet and prayed for the anaesthetic to arrive soon.
I hope you’ve all enjoyed reading about how I Nearly Died. Do get in touch if you have any comments or questions and please keep sharing the blog on social media. If I make it to 3k followers I’ll be on a par with the local rabbit rescue centre which would be pretty cool. I’ve got a lot of work to do before I can rival membership of the ‘Petersfield Hidden Rocks’ group though-they’ve got almost 15k members!! Still it’s good to have something to aim for- perhaps some of you could share my blog in your local ‘hidden rocks’ Facebook groups? As I said- nothing says minor celebrity more than desperation and life is far too short to be proud.
In my next blog post I’ll tell you all about the tummy tuck operation. It was (obviously) hilarious.