In every war there are many battles; some of them fought over scraps of land, others waged on a more personal basis. This particular war is no exception. On Friday I shall be donning my khaki pyjamas, strapping several Thomas Hardy novels beneath my belt and heading off to some clinic or other in a place called Broughton where heavy casualties in the gallstone department are expected. The surgeons have promised me a short, sharp, shock and awe keyhole conflict. Naturally I'm taking them at their word and sending three days worth of grapes ahead to sustain me through the liberation.
If things go badly, however, and here Andy Warhole springs to mind, I might be gone some time. Apologies in advance to Nancy for not being able to contribute my usual "View from Britain" diatribe this week. Hopefully I'll be back as soon as possible...especially seeing as the beds will be needed for the incoming wounded troops. (That's all I need...a ward full of squaddies whinging about anti-war protesters!) And apologies to my regular fan for having to leave this board entirely in Deputy Editor Sedgwick's hands for the duration.
A man has to do what a man has to do and if a few gallstones fall foul of my doings over the following few weeks then at least I've done...did...will do...what I had to do...did...to get it done. And if I fall in field of conflict think only this of me...(Editor's note: Fuck off to hospital for Christ's sake and don't come back in a hurry!)