It’s six months since Liam was under the knife to extract Terry the Tumour. Troublesome Terry was a lump beneath Liam’s ear that just kept getting bigger. The doc reckoned it was benign but could turn nasty if left undisturbed. I was getting quite attached to Terry but, just like Mia Farrow in ‘Rosemary’s Baby‘, Liam screamed, ‘get it out of me!’ so out it had to come. I was hoping he’d bring Terry home in a jam-jar for a decent burial but off he went for an autopsy never to be seen again. The nice Italian neck surgeon was ‘very reassured’ afterwards (that’s quack-speak for ‘we got it all out, Grazie a Dio!’).
It’s eighteen months since the arterial bypass to re-acquaint my left leg with a pulse. That worked a treat too though I won’t be tripping the light fantastic on ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ any time soon. So for a cheeky parlour game on a damp night, we compare gashes. Remarkably, what once looked like Liam had been garrotted is now just a neat mark along his jaw line. And he’s rather pleased with the partial facelift he was given as a consequence. As for me, I was slashed open from moobs to pubes like John Hurt in ‘Alien’ so I naturally assumed my beach bum days were behind me. Now all the boys will see is a thin, slightly discoloured line partially hidden by my tummy fuzz. Now where did I put those Speedos?