I thought the more ghoulish among you might like to see my scars. Well, I'm letting you see one of them, the one on my head. I have another on my upper thigh from where the surgeons took some flesh to transfer to my napper. But I don't real think even the interweb, with its array of bestial and inhuman pornography, is ready for my hairy legs yet. In the meantime, here are some hospital shots for all you Beavis and Butthead types out there:

The first one shows me on the Sunday after the operation. The metal clips are still in (I think there are 24 of them) and I still have three different haircuts at once. This makes me look like I'm in The Bravery, so obviously it has to go.

This is one week later. Be assured that in the interim I have changed out of and indeed had washed these fetching gingham-effect pyjamas. As you can see, the stitches are gone and I have asked a nursing auxillary for a "Skrewdriver". I am also not entirely out of my box on mind-bending drugs here, unlike in the first picture (more's the pity).

Yesterday I celebrated the one-month anniversary of my operation by, er, going back to hospital. Don't worry, I've not started bleeding out of my nostrils or anything. It was just a routine check-up with my ear nose and throat surgeon, Mr O'Reilly, and Mr Charles Diaper, an eye specialist. While I was there, the former told me he wanted to slice my right eyelid open and insert a sliver of precious metal. I cheerfully agreed.

This isn't because I'm keen to engage in bizarre fetishistic practices. No, I just want to be able to shut both my peepers without having to use industrial quantities of surgical tape. You see, popping a gold weight into the lid will help it open and close. With half my face paralysised by the operation, I'm currently unable to blink fully on the right side. This, as you might expect, can be a bit annoying (although I can imagine it would be more of a problem if I worked in the Gobi Desert, say, or on Blackpool beach). So hopefully as a result of this new op I'll look a bit less of a freak.

The best thing about all this, of course, is the substance used to help gravity keep my lashes fluttering when the procedure is carried out in the first week of January (I'm not quite sure why Mr O'Reilly is doing it though: after all, eyelids aren't ears, noses or throats). Now, I'm sure the more scientifically literate among you will know that the element Au is highly stable and inert: it's unlikely to break down, meaning the surgeon can just take it all out again if my facial nerve heals. I've read up on that too. But all I can think is: gold! Always believe in your soul! They're giving me this, well, because I'm worth it. Here, this is what one looks like:

How bling is that? I really want to walk through an airport metal detector and, when the alarm goes off, declare nonchalantly, "Oh, I forgot. That must be the gold implant in my eye." And then the flight crew will all think, "Oh, he must be an eccentric former Soviet oil billionaire who shuns ostentatious displays of wealth to the extent of concealing bullion inside his own soft tissue. Best upgrade him to business class." I would actually try this out, but I've been told not to travel by plane for a few months in case my head explodes or something.

In the meantime, I can content myself with the fact that this implant will give me the distinct aura of a Bond villain. Yes, I know the title of Pierce Brosnan's 1995 debut in the tux (and, presumably, Tina Turner's Bono-and-The-Edge-penned theme tune) refers not to some feline-stroking madman bent on world domination but a Russian satellite. But, y'know, still. Once the general anaesthetic has worn off I'm going straight down the bank to see if they'll put up the finance for a secret undersea base dedicated to evildoing. When I show them my gimmick, they're sure to comply; holding the globe to ransom must be a fairly profitable activity, I expect.

See that red blob at the top left hand corner of this page, bearing the legend "Back to Mono"? It's a badge which was given away with legendary producer-cum-mentalist (and alleged murderer) Phil Spector's greatest hits collection of that title. In the photo directly above this paragraph you can see it modelled by another lunatic-stroke-musical genius, Brian Wilson. I've tried to find one for myself on eBay - it would be quite appropriate, no? - and elsewhere with no success; if you ever stumble across it, buy it for me and I'll give you the money back.

Anyway, I was so taken with the relevance of the phrase to my own, one-working-lugged condition that I've decided to adopt it both as a personal motto and an explaination of why I can only pick up sound on the left side. "I suffer from single sided deafness" is so dry and literal. "I've gone Back to Mono" conjures up a world of girl groups and Tin Pan Alley, milk bars and the birth of the teenager, as though I was hearing the world through the ears of Larry Parnes.

To be honest, this side-effect of the tumour has been, perhaps surprisingly, the easiest to deal with. This isn't true for all acoustic neuroma patients. I've spoken to a couple whose tumours had robbed them of only maybe 20 per cent of their aural capacity on the affected side before the operation. Afterwards, they found it difficult to suddenly adjust to going completely deaf in that ear. In my case, conversely, I'd lost almost all my hearing on the right over a gradual period of perhaps 18 months. Even before I went into hospital I was used to it, and when I came out I noticed little difference.

I've said it before, but having only one functional ear is less of an impediment than it sounds: like going blind in one eye you take in everything you need, but sometimes have to turn your head a bit more. If you were sitting opposite me right now I'd pick up every word you said loud and clear (unless we were in the testing suite of a grandfather clock factory or somesuch). I can use the phone, watch the telly and - thank God - listen to music just as before. There's only a few setbacks, which for want of anything better to do I'll list here:

1. Trouble with background noise. At the moment I'm not frequenting too many pubs, restaurants and nightclubs. But when I was in the habit of doing so, more than was good for me, before the operation, I had to develop a few strategies to hear what the hell people were talking about over the background muzak. If I was with a group of friends around a table I'd have to stick myself on the far right hand side, so I didn't accidentally cut anyone out of the conversation. If I went to a gig or a club, I'd hear the music fine, but would have to swivel my neck around 180 degrees if anyone tried talking into my right ear. Neither of these were, y'know, all that difficult to get round.

2. Loss of directional hearing. This is the weirdest one. Say someone's mobile goes off and I can't see it. I'll hear it fine but won't be able to tell where it's coming from, unless it's very close at hand. This is because having two ears balances your sense of direction. As far as my brain is concerned, everything I hear is to my left.

3. Blind spot. Pretty much everything anyone says to me I pick up. But mix 1 and 2 and I'm in trouble - if you speak to me from behind me in the street you're going to get ignored. Action points: keep turning round to ensure I'm not neglecting my public, and always follow the green cross code.

And that's it really. Now, if my left ear goes as well, then I'm well and truly screwed. In the meantime, I think I can cope with my life sounding like an early Supremes record.

Funny thing, vanity. Before my operation, one of my biggest worries was how it would affect my appearance. That vanished, however, once I woke up from the surgery. When your nether regions are hooked up to a catheter and nursing staff are helping you wash yourself, you don't pause to check your reflection. And, after that, trying to walk again and think coherently took priority over fretting over what I looked like. But then I suppose narcissism is an impulse borne of security and contentment - I don't expect too many survivors left homeless by the Pakistan earthquake are looking for beauty tips in Glamour magazine right now.

Anyway, as the op's after-effects have been wearing off I've started peering into the mirror again and taking stock of what's there. I rarely believe anyone who tells me they don't care what they look like, after all - ours is such an image-obsessed culture it's virtually impossible not to incorporate your physical appearance in your sense of self, unfortunately. By no means have I ever been part of the moisturising metrosexual brigade (I'm far too lazy, for a start). I'd put myself at the lower end of any scale of western society's most self-regarded. But still, as Robert Louis Stevenson put it, "Vanity dies hard; in some cases it outlives the man."

So how do I look, then? Nowhere near as bad as I thought, I have to say. I knew in advance I would see the facial nerve on my right side palsy, and expected my fizzug to drop like I'd had a stroke. In fact, it has done no such thing. My face's muscle tone is reasonably good, and so long as I adopt a neutral expression you wouldn't notice the difference - if you discount the patched-up eye, of course, which will hopefully look a lot better in a couple of weeks. Even when I talk it isn't immediately apparant that anything's wrong - speaking out of one corner of your mouth is a trait deployed by such luminaries as the thoroughly evil US Vice President Dick Cheney and Scientologist convert Katie Holmes. It's only when I smile you actually notice. And even then, if I manage to contain my mirth and don't grin too widely, I just look like a Late Review panelist looking amused at the thought he's so much cleverer than everyone else.

The other physical manifestations of my operation will vanish with time. Most of my scar will be hidden by my hair, and the little bit that will remain on display (about an inch or so under my ear) will make me look like I've been involved in a particularly satisfying fight. I will grow my barnet back after having my locks shaved off. But six weeks on, I'm left with a suedehead that looks, if I say so myself, not too bad (maybe I should apply to join these guys).

And hopefully my facial palsy will vanish too. There's no way of saying for certain that it will, but my chances are as good as anyone's: the nerve was kept intact during the operation, and in every other respect my relative youth has meant a quicker recovery process than most acoustic neuroma patients. Of course, there's a chance that the nerve might have been so bruised and battered by both the tumour and the surgery that it never works again. Even if it does heal, I might have to wait up to two years, and then it might not be working at 100 per cent capacity. We can wait and see. In the meantime, I won't be asked to don anyone's winter collection on the catwalk. But then I wouldn't have been before the op anyway. And, without wanting to sound like the voiceover to the Wonder Years, some things matter less these days; whether my face is entirely symmetrical is one of them.

Festive greetings to you all! This blog is taking a few days off to eat mince pies and decorate the tree. Hope everyone gets the presents they asked for.

(Thanks to CR for the photo)

I've obviously been a well-behaved lad this year: Father Christmas came good with a shiny new iPod. It truly is a gleaming, shimmery thing of consumerist beauty, and I've become a bit obsessed with it. Like the anti-social bugger I am, I've spent the last couple of days cocooned in my room filling it up with the contents of my music collection; it's taking bloody ages, and I don't care. I'm not even a quarter of the way through, and my laptop tells me I've uploaded 68 solid days of music so far. But it's all worth it when I hobble down Dumfries High Street with the Velvet Underground blaring into my good ear, and I pretend to myself I'm walking the mean streets of the Big Apple rather than those of the Queen of the South.

I know I'm way behind the zeitgeist here. White headphones have been ubiquitous on urban trendies for a good couple of years now, and I've missed my chance to knock out a cynical cash-in cuts job about how great they are. But I genuinely thought a portable music player would be of no use whatsoever to me. One working lug, remember; not much use when I'm listening in stereo through a pair of cans. Unwilling to miss out on half of what everone else was hearing, I grudgingly accepted I would have to sit the downloading revolution out.

Or so I thought. A bit of research revealed iTunes lets your burn CDs onto your player in mono format. Not only does this chime neatly with my latest mantra (see the red blob to the top left), it also means I can hear the entire track through a single channel, i.e. in my left ear. And, even better, mono files require half as much space on my hard drive as stereo ones. So I've effectively landed a 60GB iPod for the price of a 30GB model. Ha! How do you like them apples, Steve Jobs?

Of course, my machine might sound a bit strange to anyone else listening to it. Most music since the mid sixties has been recorded in super sophisticated stereophonic sound (not to be confused with The Stereophonics, who sound neither super nor sophisticated but, instead, turgid and lumpen) and it might be disorientating to others to hear an album by, say, Ladytron appear as though it has been produced by Joe Meek. But not to me. In fact, you could argue I'm better off for it. Pick up a copy of Record Collector magazine (no link, natch) from a newstand on any given month, turn to the letters page, and you will find some bore arguing that music is best appreciated through a single speaker. And, of course, we all know Mr Spector's view on the matter.

Excuse me if I rush off now, I've got a load of CDs yet to download. Ooh, the title of this blog reminds me. I haven't burned Exile On Main Street yet.

New year's eve: I much prefer it to Christmas Day. Maybe it's because I'm Scottish, and Hogmanay has always been the more important celebration up here (December 25 was only made a public holiday north of the border in 1958). Maybe it's because when I was growing up it seemed Christmas was for the kiddies while the hooley a week later was for the grown-ups, and I wanted to be a grown-up. Or maybe it's just a better opportunity for a piss-up. Whichever, now seems an appopriate time to look back on what has been, by any reckoning, a fairly evenful 12 months in my life.

I say that. But to me it feels like 2005 was two different years, not one. Six months ago I was beavering away at work as usual in London, blissfully unconcerned about my health; strange to think that so recently I didn't even know what an acoustic neuroma was. Since then I've been preoccupied with the operation and its aftermath. Career, money, ambition, appearance - unlike before, none of these seem very important now. Which is just as well when you're on the sick and living with your parents.

Before they cut me open I imagined the experience would be in some way life-changing. I suppose now I'm less uptight - it's hard to get worked up about anything short of major brain surgery these days. And I feel much closer to family and friends after they rallied round. But otherwise I feel like much the same bloke as before. Sorry if that sounds less dramatic, but to me it's a big comfort.fficeffice" />

Less about the old year. I've so much to look forward to in the next one. I can get back to work in a few months and hopefully, by the time 2006 is out, my face will look normal again as the nerve heals. So tonight I think I’m due a measure of single malt – it’s been two months since I touched booze, after all, and now seems a good time to jump off that particular wagon. As the bells go I’ll fill my glass and raise a toast. To your good health, and mine.