Back in 2011, according to the medical summary I always carry with me for the benefit of any health professionals I might encounter during my accident-strewn existence, I had undergone two VATS wedge resections (left lung July, right lung August) to excise lesions from each of those organs via the medium of keyhole surgery. Following the second procedure, I wrote the following:

“I have been returned by the NHS into the safe cocoon of my home and family. Sounds like a successful kidnap, doesn’t it? Except that no money changed hands. It would have been well spent, though, I can assure you. I don’t think there’s much left in me to cut out now, so I’m not expecting to be carted off again in the near future; there’s nothing scheduled, anyway!

I’ve said this before but, in my opinion, keyhole surgery is one of the marvels of the age and, afterwards, they have you up and about very quickly – subject, of course, to the IV tubes, drains and other devices to which you are connected; on the morning after the day of my operation, I would not have looked out of place behind my television at home.

On the ward, there was a friendly old chap in the bed opposite whom I correctly guessed was itching to chat and, during a lull in proceedings (when I was being poked, prodded and pierced by one of the nurses and she had gone to fetch some other instrument of torture), he leapt up and came over, seating himself in the recently vacated chair. With no introductory platitudes whatsoever, he simply said “My groin hurts.” I tutted sympathetically but with not a little apprehension, wondering where this might be leading. With the aid of an extraordinarily detailed diagram which he took out of his dressing-gown pocket (where did he get it from? The diagram, I mean, not the pocket), unfolded and spread out on the bed, he proceeded to explain exactly what surgery he had undergone and extolling the virtues of keyhole surgery with which, of course, I wholeheartedly agreed and which, he enthused, had certainly delayed his untimely demise by several years, probably. I have to say I couldn’t help but share his optimism.

As he was highlighting various salient points, for some strange reason, the song ‘Old MacDonald Had A Farm’ leapt into my head (“…here an aorta, there an aorta, everywhere an aorta…”); perhaps it’s just me. Anyway, thankfully, the nurse came back before he had a chance to deliver a full ‘in the flesh’ presentation but, just in case, I spent the rest of the time pretending to be asleep.”