3rd Jul 2018 | 8 minute read

Thigh Gap

Gosh you guys have got some stamina- ten posts in and you’re still going strong. The trauma of my Near Death and subsequent saga of my near life must be very entertaining for you- I’m so thrilled that you’re all having such a great time at my expense.

Once again literary plaudits have been rained down upon me and there have been quite a few of you who have messaged me saying that it was a travesty that the Nobel Prize for Literature wasn’t awarded this year because I would have been a dead cert for winning. Fortunately it’s being awarded TWICE next year which means that if all goes to plan I should be able to replace the annoying photos of Porl’s mum that are on the mantelpiece with a couple of cute little statues. Triple win for me.

As you know, when I’d last seen my dishy consultant back in June 2017, he’d told me that I’d need another fat graft operation and some more liposuction because some of the fat had leeched out of my reconstructed left breast and my left boob had flattened out a bit as a result. Apparently this is really common and my dishy consultant didn’t seem that perturbed when I revealed my wonky boobs, he just booked me in for a further reconstruction op and to be honest I was pretty chuffed that I had ended up with wonky boobs because who wouldn’t want more lipo?

The next fat graft operation was to be a further three months down the line and in the intervening period I continued with the healthy lifestyle and completed the 10k Race For (Nearly) Life (obviously named in my honour) in July 2017. I ran it with the Couchers and despite the ridiculous heat I passed the 5k finishing post and ran (well staggered) on to complete the full 10k. Kudos to me.

The Race for (Near) Life. I’m second from right. Everyone else photo-bombed my moment of glory. Losers.

I was pretty chuffed when I crossed the finishing line and was presented with a medal but soon realised that it wasn’t a proper winner’s medal (like I deserved) but just a meaningless participation medal that they gave to everyone, even the lazy arses who walked. This means that I don’t wear it every day like I would if it was a proper winner’s medal and instead I use it to bribe the kids to do stuff that they have no intention of doing otherwise. It’s actually pretty amazing what small and stupid children will do for a fake medal on a pink ribbon and I’ve now got them emptying the dishwasher, picking up their toys and even going to bed on time. Unfortunately because I have three children and only one medal I can only bribe one of them at a time which means that I’m going to have to enter a few more races if I want to keep properly on top of the housework. Annoying.

Grump with her medal for emptying the dishwasher. Sucker.

Anyway, all this running about in the heat in order to win a fake medal meant that when I next saw my dishy consultant in September 2017 I was slimmer and fitter than ever and, after looking me up and down and scratching his chin for a while, my dishy consultant solemnly informed me that although he needed to take some more flab for the fat graft he couldn’t possibly take it from the outside of my thighs or my stomach because he’d already taken some from there and there was not a single ounce of flab left there to take. (Ok he didn’t say the last bit but a girl can dream can’t she?) The ONLY possible solution therefore was to take some flab from the INSIDE of my thighs. So I’d get a thigh gap! #nearlylifegoal. My dishy consultant had suddenly risen even higher in my estimation and I made a mental note to sacrifice my least favourite child to Asclepius in gratitude as soon as I got home.

As I happily stood in my dishy consultant’s little office wearing nothing but my giant pants and a huge grin, he went through the usual routine of grabbing my flab with both hands, measuring my right nipple with a tiny measuring tape and then drawing all over me with his superior quality blue marker pen. I think he must have enrolled in some art classes since the last time he drew all over me because instead of dashing off some scribbly circles and a couple of half-arsed wobbly arrows as he had done previously, this time he went to some real effort and created some beautiul artistic flourishes. When I checked out his handiwork in the mirror in the loos afterwards I was most impressed- there was definitely more than a hint of Monet about my torso and I was hopeful that he’d apply the same fine art techniques in the theatre- I quite fancied being made into even more of a masterpiece (if this was even possible). I was a little concerned that my dishy consultant might get a bit above himself and try and attempt a Picasso; I didn’t really want him buggering about trying to stitch my eyes sideways onto my face when he should have been concentrating on suctioning out my inner thigh flab, but I had faith that his minions would be there to keep an eye on him and so I cheerfully signed the consent form.

Once I’d been flabgrabbed, circled and arrowed up, I was sent to sit in the pre-theatre waiting room to wait for my operation. I quite liked it in theatre admissions because although it was nowhere near as interesting as the plastics outpatients department it was fun to have a nosy at the other patients, earwig on the patient/nurse conversations and play guess the operation (the arrows were a dead giveaway).

Just as I was about to get a bit bored of hanging out with the lesser patients my nursey chaperone turned up and I was walked down to the holding pen. Once again I was delighted to find a couple of my old theatre buddies there so we had big cuddles, reminisced about how I had Nearly Died and moaned on about the Tories until the blood and guts from the previous operation had been mopped up and I could go into theatre. The last thing I remember about this operation was having a nice chat with my friendly anaesthetist as he started prepping me for the canula and telling him that I was currently teaching Religious Studies. Just as I started to feel the coldness of the anaesthetic seeping into my veins the daft bugger asked me if I believed in reincarnation! This obviously made me VERY nervous but before I could challenge him on his massively inappropriate question I was asleep! I wonder if freaking people out before operations is how he gets his kicks. (PS I am now a rabbit)

I find it a bit annoying that I can’t write about what happens during the operation. Obviously I am unconscious by this point so haven’t got a clue what is going on, but I would dearly love to know what happens once I’m asleep. My favourite thing to imagine is operation choreography. Have you ever watched Morcambe and Wise’s breakfast scene? Where they coordinate their breakfast making with ‘The Stripper’ song? If not- watch it immediately- it’s very funny- and almost as hilariously entertaining as my blog. I would dearly love to think that once I’m out for the count my dishy consultant and all his minions stick on a burlesque CD and carry out a carefully rehearsed and exceptionally well choreographed surgical routine to the Stripper Song, and I absolutely refuse to accept that they don’t. What is the actual point of studying at the best medical schools, graduating with flying colours, giving well received papers at proper clever dick conferences and saving the lives and breasts of hundreds of grateful undeads every year if you can’t do a bit of choreographed surgery to stripper music when your patients aren’t looking?

Unfortunately not one of the hundreds of medical staff that I have come across has answered my questions about what happens in theatre. They just tell me that ‘what happens in theatre, stays in theatre’  and when pressed they close ranks and repeat the mantra that they absolutely do not, never have and never will operate on undeads whilst dancing. Methinks they protest too much.

Anyway, when I woke up (as a rabbit) I was taken to the touch-and-go ward where I was covered in warm blankets (how I loved the warm blankets) and spoken to by the touch-and-go nurseys in calm quiet voices until I was awake enough to have a proper conversation. Once I was fully awake and surrounded by my entourage who had again flocked to see me on account of my celebrity status, I quickly checked my face to make sure that I hadn’t been Picassoed in my sleep and once I was happy that my eyes were still in their rightful places, I began to loudly tell everyone all about how my left tit had tried to kill me. The other patients within ear shot expressed shock and awe and the touch-and-go nurseys told me how brave I was, and how lucky I was, and how strong I was and I nodded my head sagely.

Now some of you might be a bit worried about the thought of having surgery but I can honestly tell you that the only scary thing about it is the thought that someone else might Nearly Die and thereby steal your thunder. I looked suspiciously around the touch-and-go ward and asked all manner of nosy questions about my fellow patients but thankfully no one was even close to Nearly Dying and all seemed pretty dullsville and routine so I was able to relax and enjoy myself. I loved it on the touch-and-go ward because it was a almost exactly like being at a day spa what with the quiet voices and the warm blankets and the lazing around in bed and the loud farting.

By this time I’d had about ten operations in addition to Nearly Dying and my file of medical notes was proper massive and even thicker than the pile of mock exam marking I take home at Easter. As soon as the touch-and-go nurseys saw the size of my file they clustered around me desperate to find out all about how I Nearly Died and to wonder in amazement at the gory medical photographs of my blackened tit.

I had the best wedding ever because I eloped with Porl and got married on a beach at dawn* which was awesome because we didn’t have to spend a small fortune on wanky canapes or agonise over seating plans. The downside was that because no one else was there I never had the opportunity to present an expensive portfolio of soft-focus romantic wedding photogaphs to my bridesmaids. Being on the touch-and-go ward totally made up for this though because the gasps and exclamations and the teary eyes of the touch-and-go nurseys as they flipped through my medical file was even better than the imagined reactions of my non-bridesmaids to my non-existent wedding pics.

How’s this for a wedding photo? And not a wanky canape in sight.

I stayed on the touch-and-go ward until every patient and nursey had had the chance to tell me how brave and special I was and then I was wheeled back to the patient dispatch centre. I knew the dispatch centre routine pretty well by now so I didn’t even bother trying to get my non-reclining recliner chair to recline, I just sat there not reclining, munching on a stale tuna sandwich and badgering the dispatch nurseys every five minutes into checking to see if Porl was waiting next door.

As usual once Porl had collected me he took me to my mum’s to recover and I happily got straight into bed with my drugs and a hot chocolate. This time I didn’t moan at my mum for not talking in a calm quiet voice and refusing to warm blankets up for me, I was far too busy imagining what my thigh gap would look like and wondering whether there was any way of staying awake during an operation in order to find out what actually goes on in theatre.

In my next post you’ll find out about the next stage in my epic journey (it’s still far from over) and whether I did in fact end up with a thigh gap.

*If you’d like to have an awesome wedding like me ’n’ Porl check out Orkney Pagan Weddings– Helen and Mark are proper brilliant and nothing is too much trouble for them . They weren’t very happy when I made them get up before dawn and stand in the freezing cold on a deserted beach because I had a misguided notion that it would be romantic, but they did it anyway because they are wonderful human beings.

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