There are lots of great things about having a brain tumour - the time off work, the sympathy you receive, the money the government gives you to spend in Barnstorm Records (if you pay tax, you helped fund my purchase of the excellent new Yeah Yeah Yeahs album yesterday, so cheers for that). But best of all must be getting a scar that makes you appear really hard. I mean, take a gander at my neck (above). If you saw me down the boozer you'd assume I was the sort who chews milk bottles for breakfast, cracks walnuts with my biceps and inflicts pain on communists with big Jean-Claude Van Damme-style roundhouse kicks. I look nails.

Of course, you and I know that nothing could be further from the truth. Before my operation I was your standard issue white-collar office jockey, emasculated by the daily grind of advanced capitalism and about as much in touch with my inner hunter-gatherer as is Prince Andrew. But for all your average passer-by can tell, I picked up my wound scrapping on the terraces or liberating Sierra Leone. It more than counterbalances my media-ponce Joe 90 glasses. If anyone asks where I got it, I'll just adopt an enigmatic expression like Yul Brynner in the Magnificent Seven and say, "You should see the guy who gave it to me." The surgeon who made the incision is driving around Glasgow with nothing more than a handshake from me inflicted on him, but who's to know that?

I reckon I must have one of the best scars it's possible to pick up. If it ran right round my throat or across the middle of my face it would be properly disfiguring. But it's just subtle enough that you notice without it jumping out at you (as it were) all the time. And of course, what you see is just the tip of the iceberg: remember what I looked like right after the op. Now, my hair covers the vast majority of it. But you still get a little peek at its charms, like a Victorian lady flashing her ankles.

I'll concede, though, that I could have done better: the optimum abrasion is an Alan Hansen-style gouge out of the forehead, which can be concealed as optional by adjusting one's cowlick. A mate of mine picked one like this up recently at a Go! Team gig when the bass player stagedived on top of him. Friend's attention had been distracted by a bit of shiny paper or something, and he was knocked over, smacking his head off the ground. Eyewitness accounts said he "bled like a pig". It wasn't all bad news, though, as the band gave him an autographed setlist while he waited for an ambulance. His only mistake was telling me the truth about how he picked the scar up. I'd let everyone think it was part of my initiation into the Crips.

Of course, there is one demographic I'm likely to encounter that might not be at all impressed. A fair number of my acquaintances are leftist Spart-types who reckon that, like, all violence is wrong, man. But that's OK. I'll just let them think that the wound was inflicted by les flics as I battled the forces of reaction on the streets of Paris. Then I'll be a revolutionary hero. Sous les pavés, la plage !

Each morning I look in the mirror and try to smile. Each morning I only half-succeed. No matter how much I will it to animate, the right side of my face is still as static as Sunderland's position in the premiership. And as I examine my features for a flicker of movement, a hint that my nerve is going to start working again, all I see is a lunatic lopsidedly grinning back at me.

I'm lucky because I don't really droop. Stop sniggering at the back. The muscle tone on the palsied area is still taut, so unlike some other AN-ers my cheek and lips are not sagging southwards. If I relax my features I even look quite normal. Well, as normal as I did before the operation. When I walk down the street, I don't attract stares and odd glances; I did when my eye was swaddled and patched up, so I know the difference. Small children aren't covering their eyes in horror at the sight of me, which is something for which I suppose I should be grateful.

But the problem, as those of you who have seen my picture in the paper will attest, comes when I smile. A subtle, lips-together smirk doesn't look too odd. But if I laugh, or grin, I appear more than a bit weird. It's hardly the most severe of deformities, not even up there with a port wine stain or a cleft palate. And I'm confident enough in myself to know it's not the end of the world. But it is noticeable, and it is disfiguring, and I hope it goes away.

According to the BBC, one person in every 150 has some kind of facial abnormality. So I'm not alone. And, terrible though it is to admit this, I know I'm having an easier time of it because I'm a bloke. It's wrong that women are judged far more on their appearences than men. But like it or not, this means that I've got fewer social and psychological barriers to overcome. Feminists have always argued that, as a fella, one doesn't have to actively support sexism and patriarchy to benefit from them. I suppose I'm living proof of this.

In the long term, the specialists who treated me are reasonably confident things will improve. My facial nerve was left intact after the operation and the fact my face is still quite well toned is a good sign. On the downside, however, the nerve was left badly bruised by both the tumour and the surgery. The medical team ran an electrical charge through it just before they sewed me back up to see if it still worked. It did, but only when they cranked the dial up to the maximum voltage. So if movement does return, it is likely to be towards the longer end of the scale - 18 months to two years away. No guarantees, though. Some people wake up one morning and find their heads suddenly work again. Others see gradual improvement over the space of several months. Some get stuck like this for good, and just get on with it.

There's nothing I can do to speed this process up. I can, however, stave off the threat of facial drooping by keeping my face exercised. Three times a day I give my features a Mr Motivator-style workout as prescribed by my physiotherapist, contorting my lips, stretching my cheek and raising and lowering my forehead. I look bloody stupid when I'm doing it, but my reasoning is that I'll look weirder if I don't. There is even a theory that doing this will aid recovery time, that if the nerve suddenly heals the face will animate better with fit and healthy muscles. Some specialists say it's a waste of time. I just like to be doing something vaguely positive.

In many respects I'm a lot less self-conscious than I was before the operation. When you've been in hospital with strangers helping you move your bowels you tend to care a little bit less about whether your hair is properly combed or not. But I have found myself stifling laughter in company to prevent my appearence distorting. This is a shame, as laughing is something that, you know, I quite like doing. I would try to affect a Jimmy Carr-style deadpan sense of humour. But Jimmy Carr is a racist, obnoxious neo-Manning and about as funny as a burning pet shop, so I don't think I'll bother.

This morning I had cause to visit Dumfries's freshly-refurbished jobcentreplus (sic), better known round these parts as "the broo". As I approached the door my path was blocked by a security guard (half my height, but twice my girth), no doubt there to prevent benefit scum like me unneccesarily scuffing up the shiny new floor. When I explained the purpose of my trip he stood aside and instructed me: "Wait at the welcome desk and a floor manager will see you shortly."

Floor manager? I know the trend for public sector services being forced to adopt the terminology of commerce has already reached ridiculous levels (a teacher friend of mine attended a training seminar where his pupils were referred to as "clients"), but this really does take the custard cream. If nothing else, I was left feeling a bit short changed this morning. You'd think any floor manager worth his or her salt would be able to rustle up a Morcambe and Wise Christmas Special-style extravaganza complete with dancing girls and popular show tunes. As it happend, I was treated to very little in the way of entertainment during what, as logic dictates, must have been my stint as an "audience member". I didn't even get to see a decent fight, this time.

However, I think the Department for Work and Pensions may be onto something with their showbiz analogy. I've already written about how benefit claimants have to battle through layers of bureaucracy and deal with the stigma of being scapegoated in the rightwing press before they can get their hands on their pittance of an allowance. Perhaps the government have reconised the similarity between this process and Antonin Artaud's Theatre of Cruelty.

Back when my right cornea was ulcerated and threatening to explode, you might recall I was given a contraption called an eye bubble to wear in bed at night. This was a fairly bulky bit of plastic which kept moisture trapped inside and, thus, helped lubricate my knackered lens. It also made me look a bit like an alien from a 1950s B-movie, which was ace.

Now, my eye seems to have recovered, touch wood. But my opthamologist advised me to carry on with the bubble during my slumbers. The gold weight is fine at closing the upper lid when I'm standing or sitting upright, you see, but it isn't so effective when I'm lying flat on my back. Apparently this is due to a mysterious process scientists term "gravity". And if the lid doesn't close, then the eye is left exposed and dries out, and something bad happens to it again. Which of course I don't want, as my image consultant has threatened to perform another operation on it if it deteriorates again.

Fair enough. Only problem is, the eye bubble is an almightly pain. It sticks out like a sore thumb. You can't roll over at night while wearing it. And it takes my local pharmacist approximately 300 years to order one. Last time I was in Glasgow I asked the image consultant if there was some sort of alternative. "Oh yes," he said, before asking ominously: "Do you have any clingfilm in the house?" I blinked. Er, yes, I probably did. "Well, Sellotape a strip of that over the eye, and it'll do the job just as well."

Now, I was a bit sceptical. Like most people I have been brainwashed by the pharmaceutical industry into believing that only purpose-made, sterile treatments are appropriate. But the man with the medical degree and God knows how many years experience of staring into diseased pupils assured me it was safe. So before I went to bed that night I tore off a strip of Safeway Non-PVC Food Wrap and plastered it down with Micropore. I felt like a sandwich.

But it worked: I woke up the next morning with my eye as damp as ever, but unemcumbered by having something the dimensions of a cassette case stuck to my face. I've carried on applying this dressing most nights - occassionally I can't be bothered, or am staying with friends and don't feel like asking them: "Er, do you have any clingfilm? Only I want to go to bed now."

I can thoroughly recommend this course of action to any other fellow headcases who might be reading. Normally at this stage I would put up a picture of myself with my eye appropriately wrapped. But I wouldn't want to give this bloke any ideas.

Today a stranger bounded up to me and demanded to know where I bought my glasses. That's the second time now this has happened. I'm telling you, it's only a matter of time before Dazed and Confused come up here to interview me about how I'm leading a new fashion revolution.

Suddenly conscious of my status as a style icon, I decided I needed a haircut. Dumfries has come a long way in these stakes since I was last living here. I remember when the most sophisticated barber's in town was a place on English Street known locally as "Mad Eck's", on account of the proprietor's Sweeny Todd-like scissor technique. Here in 1992, Eck himself gave me an unwanted crewcut entirely contrary to my instructions. Although, to be fair, given that prior to my visit I sported an unslightly Shaun Ryder-style set of curtains, he was probably doing me a favour.

Anyway, I wandered into a new place on the Whitesands which provided services I don't normally associate with Dumfries hairdressers - a shampoo before the trim, for instance, and a complimentary latte. Kids these days don't know they're born! In my day we had to wash our own hair prior to having it cut (a girl in my year who I won't name was allegedly turned away from a local salon because her locks were too greasy - according to the playground rumour, she had to go home, have a shower, and sheepishly trudge back in again). And I didn't drink my first latte until I was 19.

Anyway, I was quite enjoying this unexpected luxury. After I had told the coiffeuse to leave my hair long enough to mask my scar, I started to forget about brain tumours and corneal ulcers and single-sided deafness and facial palsies. So much so that I lifted my coffee to the frozen side of my mouth, attempted to drink it, and dribbled all down my chin.

Nothing to do with brain tumours or even me today. I'd like to use this site to provide a shameless plug for my brother's band The Martial Arts. Although based in Glasgow, they are signed to Stockholm-based Groover Recordings and have just put out their first EP, Do It Riot Grrrl, in Sweden.

If you are not lucky enough to live in that utopia of high social welfare provision and tasteful, affordable furniture, you can listen to the release on the group's Myspace page or watch the video to lead track Murry and Audree here. If you like what you hear, why not buy a copy? I'm not on commission, I promise.

My thanks to the AN World email list for alerting me to the following story (a fuller version is here), which must surely be the greatest in acoustic neuroma history ever:

This story warms me to the very cockles of my heart. It's like a real-life episode of Lassie. I'll even overlook the incorrect use of the term "cancer" in the headline. Look, here's Steve giving Wrigley a well-deserved biscuit:

That's the age-old debate settled, then: dogs are much better than cats. Can your moggy detect life-threatening growths by sniffing your ear or, indeed, your urine? Can it 'eck.

As for me, I won't bother going for any more MRI scans in future. I'll just head down Battersea Dogs Home instead.