The silver-haired doctor in his sixties assured me that when he went in through my chest to operate on my heart that the pain I would feel afterwards would be minimal, due to the state-of-the art advances of so-called ‘keyhole surgery’. Problem was that the ‘keyhole’ he spoke of was actually big enough to fit a Key to the City or even a 21st Birthday novelty key. So the ‘minimal’ pain afterwards he spoke of didn’t mean no pain, it just meant not as much pain as it could have been. Teach me to go for the Budget Ticker Plan.
So here I am trussed up in a hospital bed accepting visitors. They were told what I was told, that ‘keyhole surgery’ allows the patient to be out in only a day, so of course they don’t turn up at all. I have been given drugs to kill the pain. They are ones confiscated from the legal heroin injection rooms down the street, and I have no idea what they are but the nurses look as cute as the ones on the Carry-On movies, and my bright green and blue unicorn reads me Black Beauty in an authentic Scottish accent.
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