Dr Plastics, richest man in Sydney

Hello loyal and patient readers.

Thanks for bearing with me.

Its not that I don't think of you and the blog, its just, well..... I am incredibly lazy.

If I could dictate blog entries just by thinking them, we'd be getting somewhere. You know futuristic type dictation into a microchip in my head or something. Then I'd be one of those deadly daily bloggers.

Oh well we'll have to go for quality over quantity.

So, since we last met, I have been back to see Dr. Plastics (possibly the richest man in Sydney).

I went back for an obligatory appointment with him to make sure I had not further questions (aka covering his ass and squeezing another few hundred bucks out of me).

I called to ask if I could cancel the appointment and just book the surgery but.... no.
I think that's what the receptionist said, I couldn't hear over the crashing noise of Jackpots in the background.

Ok, so in that case, I thought it would be a good opportunity to ask him a few questions:

1. Did you make a mistake and add a few too many 0's to my bill?

2. Can you talk me through exactly what happens to my body after I'm flooded with enough drugs to kill a small horse please?

And the answers were these:

1. Became the brightest red, middle aged Jewish man I have ever seen, choked and mumbled about speaking to his receptionist about the financial side of things...... Siting he was too busy to deal with the surgical intricacies AND the paperwork.

Fair enough. I have seen a lot of photos of his work and he just may be the Michelangelo of modern day Baps.

2. What happens to my body after Dr. Dice takes me to the threshold of my maker? An army of 8 people (including Prof Boobs, Dr Plastics, Dr Dice and their faithful team) stand on duty for 8-10 hours equipped with: sharp blades, scraping implements, hoover type implements, darning needles, no-more-gaps, fishing wire, slabs of blade steak (aka my own lat muscles), garden hose type implements, milk bottle type implements (6), drugs, drugs, drugs and hopefully comfortable shoes, coffee and sandwiches for their strength.

Remember that post I wrote about not being scared?
Yeah, well, I have an amendment to make: I am not scared of the Cancer. That Son of  Bitch has no chance with me.
But.... the surgery has me a little, tiny, weeny bit shaken. Only a titch.
A bit.
Maybe a lot, sometimes.
Two weeks and two days to go and guess what?
No e mail, letter or phone call to say there's been a mistake.

So its game on and I'm going in.

Alone.

Xxx