THE SUBTLE KNIFE

Readers, I have been under The Knife.

I didn't want to tell you before, as I was nervous enough about it anyway and I know some of you might have found it amusing to scare me even more. Also, I am somewhat superstitious. The thought of general anaesthetic was the part that scared me most. I wrote my long-overdue Will. I made my peace with God, just in case He exists. I said a prayer to St Barbara. Of course I knew the chances of not making it were infinetisimal. But, you know, it's not a reason for not being prepared. I wrote down phone numbers, bank account numbers and put them in an envelope with instructions in the event of my you-know-what, which I carefully placed in my handbag the night before the off. I left Wee Scottie sleeping in his basket, vaguely concerned about who would look after him if I were no longer around. Would he stand guard over my tomb for years like Greyfriars Bobby? Or would the disloyal little mutt run yapping happily to the first stranger who offers him a Bonio?

The surgery was practically dental but had to be done under anaesthetic as it was a bit tricky, involving SAWING off the pointy ends of teeth (i.e. the ends INSIDE the jaw). The Belgian outpatients hospital was spotless, and did not even smell of carbolic. The nurses all wear practical pyjamas, instead of ridiculous starched uniforms and stockings. All very ER. The hospital also seemed to be not terribly busy. Lots of empty corridors, half-empty waiting areas, either the Belgians are very healthy or they manage their waiting lists very well.

I had never been in an operating theatre before, in any country. This one was nothing like on telly. It was spacious, all white, and had automatic doors so the staff didn't have to touch anything, just nudged a pad on the wall with their elbow to open the doors. The surgeon was in pyjamas too, and wasn't wearing an Anderlecht flag as a bandanna or playing heavy metal music. Sometimes you wonder if that Holby City is really a documentary. Sadly none of the doctors looked like George Clooney, but maybe that's just as well, I'd hate to have someone I fancied poking about in my mouth before we'd been properly acquainted. If Anton Meyer had walked in I think I wouldn't have needed any anaesthetic.

I don't know what it is they use to knock you out these days, but I had no memory of feeling sleepy or drifting off. One minute I was wide awake staring up at the big lamp and feeling a bit tearful, and the next minute the nurse was shouting at me in the recovery room and I've got tubes up my nose. Following maxillo-facial surgery, I have six stitches in my upper jaw over the gum, and one side of my face is puffed up like a hamster. But I can eat soft food (thank God I had some foie gras in the fridge!), and can drink, although my throat is still a bit sore from the tubes. I dare say my teeth will fall out shortly after the stitches anyway and I'll have to puree my Christmas dinner. But the good news is, I don't go back to work until January, so I'm finishing Vol.3 of His Dark Materials in bed, where I will remain until my face returns to its naturally fine-boned contours - hopefully before Vera Slapp's annual visit next week, although after a few banjos with her and Cyril down the Christmas market I probably won't care anyway.

Peel me a grape, Scottie.