Well it’s over, my little brush with mortality that is. I came round covered with inexplicable symmetrical scars in unexpected places, a bit like the appearance of corn circles on my once pristine body. I am also sprouting lots of barbed wire on my chest. However the guys and gals in scrubs have done a great job so many thanks, and yes I did insist on being called Dr Goodfellow throughout, so thanks Bob Bury.

To be honest I found the whole experience quite unreal as if it was all happening to someone else quite apart from me. Nothing could better exemplify this than an event which occurred on my second post-operative day when admittedly I was still suffering from mild drug-induced hallucinations. The well-known effects of opiates on the innards were taking their toll and, because I was still wired up to the National Grid, the nurses placed me on a commode then kindly left me to my own devices (don’t worry, this is as personal as it gets).

After a few minutes there came a knock on the door and a cheery bloke stuck his head in. “OK to check the shower?” he asked. I am not sure what I replied but he took it as an affirmation and pushed passed me into the en suite bathroom where he splashed around for a few minutes, presumably checking that I was not about to be infected with Legionella. Emerging with a cheery “Thanks mate”, he disappeared, leaving me enthroned in splendour.

Now if I was a sensitive soul I could have been quite offended at this serious breach of my personal privacy and dignity (which it undoubtedly was). However I actually found it hilariously surreal in a Pythonesque sort of way, and it merely added to my sense of dissociation. Surely this was not happening to me? Slipping in and out of half-consciousness I spent the rest of the day dreaming imaginatively of whom else I might like to inadvertently intrude on my presence in such a way.

I’m now laid off until September my dreams of languorously topping up the tan have been cruelly shattered by a text message, yes a text message, from the cheery cardiologist to remind me of the photosensitivity effects of one of the pills he is feeding me. It seems that if I am exposed to the sun my skin will fall off. So that is the rest of the summer completely buggered. I have instructed the wife to put up heavy blackout curtains throughout the house to prevent a single ray of sunlight from striking my pallid sallow skin.

Henceforth I shall only go outside after dark and, having been left profoundly anaemic by the surgeons, I will seek out additional sources of iron from whatever source I can find (well anything must be better that those ghastly pills they have given me). I wonder where the kid has left his Batman cloak?

On a separate matter, in my last blog, I commented on the departure of our latest CEO leaving the trust “rudderless”. I have subsequently learned that the job has been given to a longstanding mate and colleague. I am sure he will do a good job and I wish him well.

I had a ‘tumpty-tum’ patient in ultrasound today, the sort who whistle or hum tunelessly to themselves while you are scanning them.

They are very much of a type, almost always men over 60 wearing brand new gleaming white underwear, clearly purchased by the wife for the trip to the hospital (for what man will go into M&S to buy white pants).

They are over co-operative in a generally unhelpful way, insisting on removing their shoes because they “don’t want to dirty the sheets”. Ask them to lie down they will climb on at the foot of the couch and somehow worm their way half way up then come to rest with their head not yet on the pillow and feet dangling off the end. Others will climb onto their hands and knees and lie on their belly. When asked to loosen their clothing they pull their knickers down to their knees, baring all. Put them in a hospital gown and all they want to do is take it off. And then starts the subliminal ‘tumpty-tumpty-tum’ while you do the business.

Don’t misunderstand me, I have great affection for these patients who are invariably polite and jovial. Their odd behaviour is because they are trying to compensate for their acute embarrassment. They are from a generation of men among whom bodily parts and functions were simply not discussed (other than by doctors who have a special dispensation).

My own late father was of that type. I have a vivid memory of many years ago while travelling with him in the car. I farted (as young lads are occasionally inclined to do). “What’s that?” he exclaimed. Then after an excruciatingly embarrassing silence lasting aeons he simply remarked: “Oh!” And that was it, no further conversation.

Throughout my childhood and adolescence the word “penis” never once crossed his lips, at least not in my presence. 

What a contrast to the 18-year-old lad whose scrotal hydrocoele I scanned the other day. He was completely uninhibited about getting his kit off, and discussed with me in great detail the differing size of his bollocks (his words) and the effect on his performance. He was also completely frank about discussing his girlfriend’s views on his endowments. He had a disarmingly complete lack of modesty.

So which extreme do I prefer? While the obsessive avoidance of anything remotely bodily speaks of a rather unhealthy repressed view on life, the total frankness of the other on all matters physical and sexual borders, to my thinking, on the vulgar.

I am going to have to think about this one…tumpty-tumpty-tum!