Mixed Lot

Last week I really thought that I was going to die. I made the mistake of announcing to my wife that 2011 could not conceivably be worse than 2010. It was just after that observation that I discovered the lump. Then I discovered that the lump was big. In fact the only possible explanation for a lump of that size being inside me was that I had been invaded by an alien in a Men in Black kind of way. Or it was cancer and I was going to die - probably in a few days time.

I'm not usually pessimistic. When faced with insurmountable odds I laugh and get on with the winning. I laughed this time to, but at my expected demise. The British find humour in everything (John Le Mesurier being the epitome - see pic, above) and I am very British. We all have to die, and I am guessing that I am no different (unless God has other plans for me - which is possible). Beth wasn't happy about it though. I guess I just kind of accepted it as easily as I do a glass of Stella Artois in The Dog House. Actually, that's nonsense as they don't serve Stella Artois in The Dog House and in there I drink Cobra.

Of course, I didn't go to the doctor. I have about as much faith in the National Health Service as I do a Zulu witchdoctor. They are more likely to ask me if my address is up to date or my ethnicity (I always tick Chinese because that pisses them off). And in any case, the lump wasn't actually causing me any bother at all. It became a friend in fact - I forgot what life was like before it. It got bigger and bigger and our friendship grew too. That was until it hurt. Overnight the lump turned on me. Perhaps I wasn't paying it enough attention. Perhaps it was jealous of my relationship with Beth. Whatever the reason, the lump became painful, very painful, and hasn't stopped being painful. That's when I knew that I would have to get rid of the lump - it's not the first time that I have had to get rid of a big lump from my life...

I knew that I would need some intervention because my skills as a surgeon are limited. So, with natural reluctance, I visited my doctor on Oak Street and explained that I was dying but that what really bothered me was the searing muscle wrenching pain that was keeping me awake all night every night. His response was to reassure me that I might not be dying and to let him have a look at it 'After all' he stated 'Your diagnosis is taken from Wikipedia whereas I went to medical school...'

If he had just looked at it I wouldn't have yelped like a dog in a Vietnam butcher's shop. But he didn't just look at it - he prodded it. Actually, he poked it with a fingernail that should have been cut two weeks ago. Please excuse the vernacular 'FUCKING HELL THAT HURT'

'Sorry about that' he smiled like Caligula midst flogging a Gaul 'That was rather mean...'

'How long have I got doctor?'

'Oh, about another forty years' he said.

It seems that my lump is actually more of a pain than a threat, the result of an 'accident' (I remember the incident now). Two JCBs are to be sent to help with its removal, which should be complete by the end of next week.

That I am not about to die and, in fact, am in shipshape and Bristol fashion is somewhat re-invigorating. It does mean I have to get on with some work though - we have our next auction on Thursday (27th January). We are accepting lots now right up until Wednesday (4pm) so do get in touch (01603 304337 or 07810 646711). We can take stuff in at St Andrew's Hall or at our office on River Green (I know that some people find that easier). We can collect too (for a small fee).