Sir Jerry?

Then again, I don’t think you can knight a mouse – and as a US-citizen (or, occasionally French), it could at best be an honorary title.  Still, perhaps more chance here than with my earlier attempts to beatify one.

But no, it’s only a feeble pun – so no surprise there.  Yesterday, I was due to undergo a little minor surgery (Sir Jerry?) – not, I should make clear, to remove a trapped child.  No, my planned surgery had more to do with miners than minors.

I have a cluster of moles in the small of my back, and a few weeks ago one of them decided to bleed.  The location made it virtually impossible for me – even with a complex arrangement of mirrors – to see what was going on.  Bleeding moles are generally considered a warning (or a garden pest), so I went to see the doctor – though Humboldt squid have been exposed to more sunlight than this mole.

Whilst Sawston has quite a large surgery, it does seem to possess but a single magnifying glass – so I had quite a long, and topless, wait while it was tracked down.  The considered opinions of two doctors (and one student – though he kept pretty quiet) were that there was no problem with my mole, but that it should be removed anyway.  Rather a dangerous precedent, thought I, as the rest of my body is problem-free and I don’t really fancy any precautionary amputations.  Still, I figured I should follow the medical advice – and I was duly booked in for minor surgery.  I should make clear that I had nothing against the mole, given its location I barely knew it was there – though I suppose the small piles of earth I found between the sheets each morning should have been a clue.

Anyway, cutting to the chase, yesterday I headed to the surgery to have my little velvet gentleman removed.  Once again, it was inspected by a further doctor and a nurse and they also decided it wasn’t an issue – and as a result, that it should stay.  The doctor seemed concerned that my skin was quite tight, and that stretching would be an issue for my healing.  However, I do think I will still have to see a further doctor (the 4th) who, as a dermatologist, will have the final say.

Given that the primary doctor on both my visits was female, and I spent considerable time topless on each occasion, I am beginning to wonder if this is all a ruse to cop a look at my ripped torso.  If the dermatologist is also of the distaff persuasion – then I shall be convinced that there is some Diet Coke lurking just out of shot.  Perhaps I should just tell them that I am more than willing to pose for a modest fee (or cake) – there is no need for the medical subterfuge.

My only disappointment with keeping my mole is that it cannot be sent off for biopsy – well not unless I go with it.  Biopsy is one of my favourite words, which along with almost and chintz, has the unusual feature that all their letters appear are in the correct alphabetical order (with no repetition – nor, for that matter, hesitation or deviation).  These may be the only three six-letter words to share this property – and certainly, despite rather more thought than it really warrants, I have failed to come up with an example beginning with D.  Unless readers can think of any…

Feel free to continue the lunacy...

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