Archive for August, 2009

Music of the night…

OK, it’s a week later and the six stitches are out, and the horrendous bill is in.

My GP said he’d have cut the small (basal cell carcinoma – look it up!) skin cancer out if it were anywhere else, but he’d prefer I went to a plastic surgeon since it was on my face.  The plastic surgeon was keen to assure me that there wouldn’t be much scarring.  Well for what he charges, there better not be!

But hey, I’m a guy in his mid 50’s who was never Fabio to start with and the freckles hide a multitude of sins, so you, know, I think maybe for a budget price I could have put up with looking like I was the product of a good German University. (where dueling might still be fashionable…).

Anyhoo, I figured I’d get my money’s worth when I went back for the free follow up to get the stitches out, and had the poor (well, not really, see above) guy take a quick look at all my other minor blemishes – which he pronounced unproblematic at this stage…..

I haven’t actually seen the results since he covered it with yet another plaster after removing the stitches, so I may yet qualify as a possible Stuttgart graduate.  Another 3 days till the reveal.


Just sprocketing along

Languished, this blog has.   Life gets in the way of idle keyboardmanship, and that’s as it should be. 

Over the last few months, thanks to a mysterious tummy complaint, your correspondent has been poked, prodded, had blood let, had his insides peered into by X-ray and ultrasound, then invaded by the upper gastic and the dreaded rear-end probe in a search for the elusive cause.    With every test coming up boringly normal, the diagnosis is “irritable bowel syndrome”, which in layman speak means “you have a mysterious tummy complaint”.  Some antispasmodic pills later, everything’s settled down, we hope.   In the process of this exercise, however, a small skin cancer was found and has to be excised next week.  It’s apparently not the life threatening type; but since it’s on my temple, the local GP would prefer to leave it to a plastic surgeon so that the scar doesn’t make it look like I attended one of the better German universities.

Being unwell is hard on the creative juices, I find.