No more scrambled eggs

Well, I’ve regained the ability to chew, and speak properly, and I’m down to two Nurofen a day. I do still have stitches in my gob, but apparently they’ll fizz away all by their own selves in a couple of days. The chipmunk cheeks are – thankfully – long gone.

Be ye warned, though, the pain was cat, especially after the hi-grade drugs wore off. I’d initially thought I was feeling better and made the mistake of venturing outdoors for the first time – to Tesco of all places – and sure enough, within five minutes my jaws were throbbing and I was threatening to take someone out with the trolley.

By day six I was feeling much less murderous, and after a day spent baking (!) I figured I was probably fit to return to work. And so here I am a week later, still a bit knackered, but pretty much fixed up.

My sickweek in numbers:

Anaesthetists resembling Guy from Green Wing: 1 (bingo!)
Fingers held up when I came round and the nurse asked me how sore I was on a scale of 1 to 10: 7
Types of medication I went through: 5
Plates of scrambled eggs eaten before the sight of them made me want to vom: 3
Litres of ice cream consumed: 1
Episodes of Gilmore Girls watched: 40 (yeah, I know)
Magazines read: 8

Times my surgeon said “they don’t grow back, you know!”: 3. Well, thank goodness for that.