Back to see my surgeon, to unveil his neat stitching. The dressings came away, and lo, the Zipper Boobs were revealed. A very neat job indeed. That standard of work would have gained high praise indeed in Mrs Taylor’s Home Economics Class at my old secondary school.
Pity I didn’t think sooner, I could have got them to pop in a little pocket. It would have been handy for my bus pass next year.
Instead of the blousy front elevation of Dolly Parton, I now resemble one of those tiny Soviet girl gymnasts of the 70s. Well, only in the ribcage area. This belly and bahookie are never going to execute a perfect 10 on the parallel bars any time soon.
Of course, where have they gone? It’s a question that really didn’t bother me that much until I saw news reports of body bits being stockpiled in freezers. The lady bumps and I didn’t part on the best of terms, but I had hoped that they’d be laid to rest with a little more decorum than a black bin bag in Airdrie.
Before they were dispatched to their doom, wherever that might be, they were examined, and surprise! That Sneaky Little Devil had been busy. Just prior to being rumbled, it had managed to reach a size that my consultant described as “respectable”, like it was something to be mildly proud of.
Like any growing concern, it had already made a break for the big outside world, and it was found to have reached the lymph nodes, which are essentially the M8 of the body. Once it got there, had it been left to its own devices, it would have been time to switch on the SatNav and hit the high road.
Not only that, it had set up a branch office. Sneaky Little Devil 2 was lurking not far away.
The good news? It was caught. Not only that, but the medication I’ve been taking was giving it a right old hammering. The consultant seemed very pleased with me, like I had done good, when in actuality, all I had done was take a tiny tablet every day, oh, and fought with him every step of the way.
So, he said, with a weary air as he closed my ever-expanding folder, your next step is the oncologist. I’ll see you in a year’s time.
So, matey, I said, is this us now bound together for the next five years of fun-filled frivolity? He gave the faintest of shudders. “Ten years,” he said. Jings, cried I, that’s longer than a Kardashian marriage.
He gave the nurse a look that said: “Get me out of here, I’m a consultant.”
Zombie PM, not Boris
What other bits of body have they got out lurking out there in bin-bag lined containers? Perhaps it’s a fiendish plan by the Tories. After all, they must have enough spare parts by now to build a credible challenger for leader of the Conservative Party if Theresa gets sick of the job. Right now, a pile of reanimated flesh would probably be just as effective at negotiating with the EU and certainly more acceptable than Boris.