So first thing this morning, my phone goes. Can I call the plastic surgeon’s secretary.  I call the plastic surgeon’s secretary. Someone has cancelled, she tells me, and I can take their slot. Do I want to come in for my first operation on Tuesday?

Well, I hadn't seen that one coming. The first thing that goes through my head is: “My work might not be too keen on this” (I hadn’t even warned them surgery was in the offing). The second is: “Yes, yes, indeed I do want to get this out of the way very much indeed.”

Assuming nothing would be happening until well into summer, I hadn’t made any sort of preparation whatsoever. So I’m thrown into a flurry of booking transport to Glasgow, warning my parents that I’m about to impose on them, and so on. Work can’t be nicer, it turns out, and of course I can take as much time off as I need. By mid-morning, my appointment with the scalpel is confirmed.

I’d take the time to reflect on this, and offer you my considered response. But I haven’t two minutes to myself all day. Never did I anticipate the brontosaurean NHS would compel me to act so swiftly. Remind me to ask the plastic surgeon if he can fit in a bit of liposuction while he’s at it.