I've always thought of myself as, you know, reasonably good looking. I don't want to overstate this. My appearance is nowhere even approaching film star rank, let alone universally appreciated. I'm carrying a few surplus pounds and my teeth a bit wonky. But on a continuum with, say, a young Robert Redford at one end and Stoke City midfielder Luke Chadwick at the other, I'd put myself closer to the Sundance Kid. Just. I could look a hell of a lot worse, put it that way - given the choice you'd rather have my features than David Mellor's.

But now I face the likelihood of becoming ugly. Not just ugly, in fact, but deformed: my face twisted and lopsided, with one unblinking eye there just to terrify passing toddlers. It's not a look that, as far as I'm aware, has yet caught on in Hoxton, although I'm sure it's a matter of time. Still, to the rest of society I'm going to look very unappealing indeed, and the only question in all probability is whether this state of affairs is temporary or permanent.

I'm ashamed to say, because I didn't realise before how vain I was, that this is the consequence of the operation I fear most. It isn't even the most likely side effect, or the worst possible. On one hand, becuase I know I am definitely going to lose all the hearing in my right ear I accepted it straight away. After all, it was more or less gone already, and single-sided deafness isn't all that dramatic: the aural equivelant of walking around with one eye shut (you take in everything you need to, but sometimes have to turn your head a bit more). On the other, there is the one per cent possiblity of death and the two per cent chane of stroke. These seem remote enough not to worry about just now, and if I buy the proverbial farm at least I won't have to deal with the consequences. Likewise the five per cent likelihood of needing a tracheoctomy, which can be sorted out in the long run anyway.

But the prospect of permanently looking like I can eat tomatoes through a tennis racket seems somehow more ominous. The other possible outcomes seem either manageable in the long run or (and I stress these are very, very remote possibilites, especially given I'm being treated in a major nerologial unit) so severe there's little point specualting about them. But there's something about disfigurement that strikes at one's sense of self. Disfigurement of the face is more dramatic yet. The very image I prevent to the world being transformed for the worse is, I admit, a pretty depressing one. And I admit I'm vain enough to get worried.

Not having a girlfriend is a massive relief at the moment, because a) I'd hate to put someone through all that right now and b) I really cannot be bothered worrying about anyone else. But there is no doubt the chances of getting another one could be severly impaired. In general, walking into a nightclub looking like Quasimodo is not the best way to attract the ladies. Young girls growing up rarely fantasise about their wedding day to a man resembling Bill Deedes, but just on the right hand side. Terrfyingly, I'm going to have to start showing people The Beauty Within. I mean, Jesus, even I don't know where that is.

Here's what we're looking at. The acoustic neuroma is pressing against the nerve that controls the facial muscles. For some reason this doesn't mind being stretched, but objects greatly to whatever is stretching it being taken away. When this happens, the face palsies on the side of the tumour and the mechanism that opens and closes the eye malfuntions. The best case scenario is that the nerve is left intact and eventually heals - and given the size of the tumour, and the fact it is also distorting the ear canal, I would be lucky to get by with this. The worst that can happen is that the nerve is severed during the operation and the medical team are unable to repair it. If this happens, the muscles will go on the right side of my face, drooping permanently, and I can forget about that modelling contract with Prada.

Having a visage like Jonathan King is not, of course, the most debilitating thing that can happen to someone. Surgery can go some way to repairing it: I can have a facelift to correct the limpness a bit, although I'll still have no movement on that side. If this is the worst consequence of the operation I'll be grateful to be alive. But because it will strike at the core of how I appear to others, I don't want it to happen. I know men are supposed to be nonchalant about their appearance and scoff at preening, mosturising pretty boys. But believe me, the prospect of lifelong disfigurement makes mirror-checking metrosexuals of us all.

Don't you agree that "Acoustic Neuroma" would be an ideal title for an Unplugged album by Korn or Staind or some equally dreadful nu-metal band?

I must copyright the idea before Fred Durst beats me to it.