There was a long questionnaire doing the internet rounds a while ago, Question 60 of which was “Have you ever posed nude in front of strangers?” I was going to respond in the affirmative, on the same basis as that of a friend who thought that she had, since having a baby possibly met the criteria, although she did recall wearing a T-shirt at the time.

I thought I may have achieved the required status upon the occasion of my vasectomy some years ago – I would argue that, as a man, you probably couldn’t get much nuder than that in front of strangers – and the following account would not have sat well merely as an adjunct to a piffling piece of internet silliness; I thought it more deserving of a separate blog, but make up your own mind about that.

Those of a nervous disposition may like to squint a bit whilst reading. I would like to mention that I had a pre-op examination a few days before and it is the first time in my life (and the last, I hasten to assure you) that I have shaken the hand of an Australian, two digits of which, within seconds, were thrust unceremoniously up my arse. But I digress.

Although I was told the operation would be carried out under a local anaesthetic (phew!), it was a day surgery job, so I was only at the hospital from about 9 a.m. until my sister-in-law picked me up late afternoon. I recall one or two incidents both during the day and the subsequent month I had to take off work. Eh? Well, because of the clot. Yes, the clumsy bugger with the knife and the, er, other one. Think of a tennis ball. On second thoughts, don’t remind me. For ten days, I had to sleep downstairs on the settee because I was unable to negotiate the stairs. And they made me take hot baths with salt and told me to squeeze clotted blood out. Excuse me while I wipe my eyes.

Anyway, I got a Good Boy Certificate from one of the nurses who said that I had burbled incessantly before I was fully anaesthetised and, afterwards, I was wheeled into a recovery room with about eight other men, most of whom had had the same operation. A buxom sister would come in frequently and check our, um, bits. By her third visit, we were, in true Folies Bergères style, lifting our gowns in perfect unison – even the bloke in the bed next to me despite the fact he had only had an ingrowing toenail removed.

All in all, a rather painful episode of my life which could possibly have been made less so had my sister-in-law not driven me home at about 60mph round bend-ridden country roads with me trying to take my weight on one or other buttock – and failing miserably. She meant well.

When I got back to work, a friend asked me where I had had the operation. When I told him “Salisbury,” he replied “what, Market?”

Oh, ha ha.