Please proceed…

CHRIS BENNETT faces life in New York.

PROCEDURE? Sticking knives into my living flesh? It might have been procedural to the surgeon and his delightful assistant, but to me it was an operation. A major operation; on my face, to boot. Very cheeky.

But I did appreciate the eminent gentleman's matter-of-fact, calm approach. He had done it before; doubtless hundreds of times. Less bother than a car service, I shouldn't wonder.

But for me? Well, I prostrated myself, fully clothed, on the table. He must have done this before, I thought, because he didn't tell me to relax.

I tried to hide my hands underneath me, knuckles as whited as the proverbial sepulchre.

I caught the steely glint of a hair-fine needle out of the corner of my eye. I could sense that he was caressing syringes. He didn't say, "This won't hurt"; he said, "I believe you write for the South Coast Fever".

At that point he struck; gently, it must be said. It hurt, of course. It was a local anaesthetic; much better than the imported one, I am told.

"No," I replied, through the remaining half of my face, "I write for the South Coast Herald. The one for grown ups".

I was in the hands, so to speak, of the good Doctor Singh, Dermatologist. My GP had recommended that a persistent small patch of the skin on my face might be a problem. I thought I had better get rid of it (the small patch, not the face; mind you…) before flying to the fleshpots of New York.

After what seemed like a small eternity of pulling, pushing and digging in this mute and reluctant flesh, the good man announced that he had finished. Almost.

At this point Celia entered theatre left. She was holding what appeared to be a tangled small bundle of fishing line. The by-now-weary corner of my eye caught yet more glinting. Eyes wide shut, I tried to imagine what Tolstoy would have made of all this; about ten pages I shouldn’t wonder.

The relaxed sensibility of these two skilled people went a long way to making the whole, dare I say procedure, quite endurable.

I rose from the awkward, narrow table on which I had lain like a specimen. Of what, don’t ask.

The doctor then declared he was not satisfied with the bandaging. A while later I had been swathed in a pressure bandage, what appeared to be several metres of sticky crepe wound around my head like a nun’s wimple. I left the medical centre bearing no little resemblance to the picture of Marley’s ghost in A Christmas Carol.

As a parting shot, the by now admirable Dr Singh said, “Try not to smile”. Not a lot of effort required there then.

Packing for my forthcoming adventure in the former colonies loomed rather large this week. For the rest of this month I shall be living in Brooklyn, close by Prospect Park.

I have been practising American. Interestingly, I find the word fall quite a lot more attractive that the rather pedantic autumn. It is a gentler, more descriptive word. I am told the fall is one of the most beautiful seasons in New York State.

By this time next week I shall know, all being well.

CB

14/10/11

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