A little piece of me

I had a piece of me removed today for the first time. A random mole that was indulging in a touch of misbehaviour. Everybody agreed that although they couldn't agree on whether it mattered, we should wop it out anyway just to be on the safe side. With the troublesome blot occupying the front of my upper left leg, I could easily get a good view of the 'operating theatre' by adjusting my head rest. After pumping the area in question with some local anaesthetic, my lady doctor sets about cutting and jabbing with her arsenal of scalpels, tweezers and tongs. And boy, did she dig deep. It reminded me very much of the time in my childhood when I sat up late in my bunk bed and proceeded to remove a particularly persistent veruca with the aid of a compass needle. It was so stubbornly rooted in my foot that despite the chasms of blood that I carved around it, I finally resorted to gritting my teeth and yanking it out. And such it was today. After scraping a bit of fat from under surrounding skin (that's where it was hiding!), we then had a curious oven-lighter shaped gizmo employed to zap and burn the blood into abeyance. Then the stitches. Pure overkill. Three white stitches to begin with - these would hold my insides together before being eventually absorbed into the body - followed by five blue stitches to draw the surface together and turn my shark wound into a slight sneer. I'm told another appointment is necessary to have these removed but I'll be damned if I don't whip them out with my teeth and nails first. A bit of dressing and post op talk and that was it. I have to say that I was so impressed and curiously transfixed by the whole affair that I could easily come back for more. I still have a number of other moles that I could utilise with simple cries of the c word. This would simply be viewing the same performance from different angles though, leaving me with similarly ambiguous and unimpressive scars. What would the next phase of this developing fetish be I wonder? Mr Ballad would know I'm sure if he hadn't bit the dust. I would need to move onto bigger and better things, if not larger holes at least. Worse than MRSA it sounds as though I might have contracted some kind of gash envy during my hospital visit. I may be extrapolating but I bet there are some of these characters out there.