Snip, snip, snip...

There can't be many things worse than the sound of hearing your own skin and flesh being cut through.

I didn't expect an actual operating theatre, complete with a team of people, a big light above and the stuff you see on Casualty. And I didn't expect to be covered with a sheet, with just the bit that was to be cut exposed. The only other time I've been in an operating theatre was when I was five and had cut my head open when I fell over. I recall only that I wailed.

The anaesthetic injection felt cold and sharp as the contents of the syringe seeped into the skin and muscles of my armpit. Then, I felt tweaks and prods, and thought, "Ah, it's done", only to hear: "Knife please." Then, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip. Like a pair of scissors cutting through a raw chicken breast. Why did he have to say 'knife'?!

The registrar commented on how the bump went deeper than he thought it would have and eventually (after much snipping) showed me the thing he'd removed. It was half the length of a finger, smaller in girth, but not what I'd expected. I thought he'd produce something resembling a petit pois. He explained certain things to the two students who stood by. They were young enough to be my sons.

It was nearly over when Dr Registrar found another small lump nearby, and decided to run the knife across it. However, it wasn't numb and I yelped. So, there was yet another injection, more snipping, and then the blue thread came out to stitch it up as warmth flowed down my side and was mopped up. Two helpings of local meant it didn't hurt for a while but I was shaking afterwards – adrenaline, I suppose – and had to have a cuppa before I left the hospital. In the café sat a woman with a face the shade of a primrose – she looked healthy apart from her skin tone.

Off to get paracetamol (and I must stop typing).