You might feel a slight pinch...

Well, on today's evidence, I am certainly not complaining about our National Health Service. Sure, the nice man stuck a needle into my cervix. Twice. That was irksome. And then he burnt off an evil section with a laser, which, in spite of the local anaesthetic, was an unpleasant procedure. It required a miniature hoover to be held by a third party somewhere in the vicinity of my groin to vacuum the smoke, which was all rather more literal than I'd expected. None of this was especially pleasant for any of us, you'll understand, but it was all done with a perky attitude and a seemingly genuine concern for my welfare and it's impossible to feel anything but gratitude for the poor people who were doing their stuff. I was especially pleased that George Clooney wasn't a real doctor when I realised with embarrassment that I'd forgotten to shave my calves. As I put my legs up in the stirrups, I sheepishly remarked on this; the lovely Irish nurse took one glance at them and said, 'Oh goodness me, dear, I don't know what you're talking about! Mine look like a forest compared to that! There's no point worrying about it in winter, is there?' Now that's what I call service.

A few hours later and I'm tucked up in bed feeling slightly weak and feeble but still mentally positive, I'm afraid. I know how incredibly fortunate I am to have my health - that is only the second time in my thirty years that I've had a procedure in hospital. The last was to have my adenoids removed when I was about seven, an experience that will forever be remembered by me as the reason my parents bought me the My Little Pony Grooming Parlour. I think I would have voluntarily had most of my other non-essential body parts removed in order to continue receiving Hasbro toys. Anyway - in short, I'm extremely lucky. But the good news for you is that I've been forbidden to exercise for a month which should ensure my serotonin levels will soon plummet to a point where I'm back to my old pessimistic self. Plus I'll inevitably gain weight, lose my mojo and before you know it, I'll be back to August/September 07 depths of despair, complaining about all and sundry like a pensioner at Pacha. Bet you can hardly wait.