Tuesday 22nd June. “You have got to be phucking kidding me”.

An excellent couple of days for the following reasons: Face now resembles Amanda Holden crossed with a giant hamster levels of prettiness (moving down the fat scale). Secondly, bought a very expensive and shiny new red car that looks like a minx and goes like one too. Finally (and some would argue most importantly) managed to remove the massive ingrowing hair that has been plaguing my leg for the last fortnight. Yeehaw!

Feeling much more confident about appearance now, probably due to receiving my first post-operative wolf whistle on my merry way to Somerfield. True – I was wearing tiny hot pants and he could only see the back of me. Feel quite affronted that he didn’t even bother to check out my face first so throw in an attempted yell of “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”. It is an attempt as, due to the fact that I am still struggling with my diction, “fucking” comes out “phucking”. However I don’t panic as I’m fairly confident it makes me appear more gangster.

Applying for a car loan by phone was a daunting experience. Not due to the sums involved, or the fact that Natwest will be going through my accounts with a fine toothcomb (although incidentally feel grateful,as i’m on the phone to them that I paid cash for my last purchase in Ann Summers, and that drug dealers only accept cash.. joking work people..aha ha...). What, infact, makes the phone call so difficult is the loan guy dealing with me seems to be royally pissed. Its 10am. But then, being conscious of my own imperfect telephone voice due to the op – I am wary. Pretty sure I don’t sound like I’ve necked a bottle of bells in the last half hour though, and that I would be able to say “WelslumtoNatswestloanshowcanihelpsyouuu” in a more appropriate manner. Manage to refrain from saying anything though for fear that a) he may be mentally retarded and don’t want to be a bigot and more importantly b) it may have a negative impact on my loan application. Instead put him on speaker phone and silently laugh with my bro and his girlfriend Natalie as he takes 10 mins slur his way through the T&C’s. My only comment is a heavily sarcastic “Yeah. CHEERS mate” at the end of the conversation.

Buying a new car inevitably means selling the old one. Thus it needs totally hoovering out and cleaning. It’s a nice day so decide to wear the bikini to do this a la Jessica Simpson in order to ensnare any passing mega buffs. Seeing as my parents live in a quiet suburb of Southport (home of the aged) this is most unlikely. Chances decrease further when I twat myself in the face with the hose attachment. Yep – the feeling is definitely coming back.

Sunday 21st June. “My parents are insane”

“Bored bored bored with a capital buh. When it’s the weekend when you’re working it’s THE WEEKEND! You look forward to it; you relish every drunken, hung over, illegally intoxicated moment of it and metaphorically sigh when it is over. The post-operative bird with the fat face on the other hand cringes for the entire 60 hrs of it (I go to the pub for Friday afternoon lunch). Make a massive error on Friday night. I log on to facebook. Jeeeeeeesus! Does every single bloody one of my friends have to change their status to either one of the following: “I am getting fucked tonight”, “Ive already started getting fucked for the night” or “I am getting fuucked tonight’ (extra ‘u’ = the getting laid type of fucked). Bastards. Consider changing my status to “I hate you all you fucking fucktards”, but remember the time I did this once before when I was battered and it did not go down well (0 comments). A few lovesome friends do not forget old twat chops and send me a few drunken texts. This is no good. I need something to focus on. So make plans for my first night back in York at the start of July with the darling Al. Now I have a night out planned which I am going on twat chops or not.

In addition to being bored family are becoming increasingly irritating. Main points of irritation are as follows:

Mum and Dad constant bickering. How can two people live their lives in such constant drama?! The ‘major issue’ ratio is greater than Hollyoaks but without the deaths or any one fit. Most ridiculous argument to date was over whether or not my brother should or should not be allowed to drive the car they bought him for his 18^th which is fully insured and taxed in his name and has a private number plate with his initials. Bro and I argued he needs to practice. Mum and Dad argue he needs to pass his test first. Recall very clearly my main motivation for leaving home at 17. My parents are insane.

People looking at me when I attempt eating frustrates the hell out of me. Yes yes yes i know they are just checking to make sure I can cope ok. But seriously, I had an operation on my jaw not a lobotomy, I will be able to figure out if I can’t eat anything. Try to circumnavigate the problem by holding a napkin to my mouth. This causes an even greater furore as my Dad is concerned I have...ultimate drama.... stopped eating the barbeque. Explain my predicament angrily and manage to spit sausage everywhere in the process. No one speaks to me for the rest of the meal. Happy with this.

Finally what annoys me the most is my physical inability to shout. This becomes apparent on Saturday when, as everyone is out, I hook up the x box 360 to the ‘main tv’ to appreciate the awesome graphics on ‘Assasin’s Creed’. Am appreciating them so much I have to explain to a POT that I have no time to dirty text right now as they are pretty incredible; oh and P.S, does he not know that the game can have up to 60 different NPC´s on the screen at a time to create a more realistic atmosphere?!! Geese! N00b! Get blasted by me Ma when she comes back from town to realise what i’ve done. The source of her anger is the fact that my brother fucked up the Sky last time he hooked the 360 up to the tv. I try to give a practical demonstration how UN-fucked up the tv is, but she just continues to shout. She’s an only child, I think it’s an attention thing, and, like most mothers, has no interest in practical logical explanations. Further en-angered today when I find I am unable to partake temporarily in my all time favourite past time... shouting and swearing loudly at the TV whilst the Grand Prix is on. And today was such a good day for shouting. Reduced to sitting directly in front of the TV hoping that my face will cause enough offense as it is.

Thursday 18th June, 2009. “A post ironic gang of armed vigilantes”

A much better couple of days. Face is now distinctly “chubby” in classification rather than “blatant overeater”. Can now pass for being mildly deformed as opposed to utter freak. Celebrity status-a-like : Bungle from Rainbow (Chubby but cute looking. Minus the fur).

Yesterday was spent locked in a “no bailing” dual effort to conquer ‘Streets of Rage’ 1, 2 & 3 back to back on the old Sega Mega Drive with my brother (it rained). Macs informs me ‘Streets of Rage’ was banned in Cornwall when it first came out. I feel very grateful for this vital information. It adds to the gaming experience and makes me feel HARDCORE. Later I also ponder the judicial system in Cornwall – is it somehow different to the rest of the UK? Did the local authorities implement this or was a county-wide strategy? Most importantly how was this ban enforced? I imagine a post ironic gang of armed vigilantes breaking into the homes of Cornish 9 year olds - ripping the illegal cartridges from their 16bit consoles. Decide Macs must have been lying. Four hours later also decide my eyes hurt.

So I came to the beach today to write my blog. I feel tres artistic, huddled up in the sand dunes...scribbling away. Then comes the ‘Sand to Eye’ incident. No longer feel artistic and in fact feel quite stupid. This is most impractical. Also un-artistic is the nearby group of utter scallys (Southerners. This means chavs) I am dutifully trying to avoid eye contact with. Scals don’t have morals. They would blatantly laugh right in my deformed face. What surprised me was the lack of reaction to my deformity on the 30min walk down to the beach. Could it be that I have slightly overestimated how freaky I look? Although, thinking about it a dog did run up to me, but when it got up close it ran off whimpering (Promise this actually happened). Maybe it’s just the general public are good at hiding their disgust around here. Portera suggests in an attempt to be the ultimate artiste I sign off my blog “fin”. I propose that with my excellent command of language and natural eloquence this would be overkill.

Laters slags.

Tuesday 16th June. “Bisto for breakfast”

Threw some sexy shapes in the mirror before I went out to sunbathe this morning in my bikini. Body looks good due to malnutrition no doubt. Face still like a freak. Result = that Apex Twin video . One of the POT’s declares I have “the body of Baywatch and the face of crimewatch”. Sigh. It’s true. I can see similarity between The Hoff’s thighs and my own. No but seriously, what if my face does not go down and I remain fat faced forever?! As a precaution I am going to concentrate on keeping my body slender. Paranoia is sets in. I constantly think my Mum is adding cream to my “food” (aka mush). As I think about it i’m sure the chicken soup from last night was particularly frothy. Therefore I take over making my own “food”. Attempt milky ‘Complan’ solution. Sick in mouth. Still stubborn about making my own meals. Have Bisto in the beaker for breakfast.

Sodbag brother has left a half eaten sandwich around. Its crusty exterior and half melted £1.99 for 400g special offer innards have the effect a grass-fed Argentinean fillet steak would have on normal people. Under normal circumstances I would tut, and throw it away. Instead I eye it over the top of my heat magazine for half an hour until I begin to worry what the neighbours will think of the strange sounds coming from my tummy (Like an angry Alsatian). I finally throw the sandwich away and locate the offending block of cheese which bore it. There is about a small sandwich worth’s left. I cut the cheese in to miniscule cubes (and i mean miniscule – later I see an ant making off with one I drop outside) and consume them over the course of an hour. It’s painful, but gets easier and is like gastro heaven to my cheese starved tummy.


Later I look across to see my Dad’s poor rabbits stuck in their hutch in the sun (he’s not a mental rabbit man – they did belong to us kids but we’ve all moved out now). Feel sorry for them so decide to give one some fresh air and put it in the run. Also decide it’s not necessary to put my bikini top on to perform this task. It will be my thrill of the day. Someone might see me! It might be a mega buff! Who is shorter than me and does not like looking at people’s faces! Now have a fat face, sunburn marks and scratched nipples in the shape of a rabbit claw.

Monday 15th June. "Rick Waller definitely would".

Hi. Been back to hospital again today. Not elastics malfunction related - just a check up. There was a massive waiting room full of old people. Me and the other post op bird were both there. She still looks better than me and is nice. Fucking bitch. Everything is fine with the jaw etc. I am told to make an appointment with my authodentist for the next week so that he can check up on me. All i can think is "yuuuuuuuesss! Spike removal time!".

I sat out in the sun all today. It’s not been as nice as it sounds. Firstly came the problem of how does one with a broken face sunbathe on their front? All positions proved painful, but I finally settled on a position I call "the inverted banana". It involved two deck chairs and lots of cushions. My second problem of the day came when I ventured in doors and realisedthat, yes, I had somehow achieved the impossible. I had given myself horrific sunglasses burn marks that made me look even more of a fat faced freak than before. I even have those horrific 'neck lines' that fat burnt people get around their chins. Just as I was beginning to think I could pass for as attractive as Britney circa the bald picture of her attacking the paps car with her brolly, however I had unwittingly demoted myself to Lisa Dingle's fuck-a-bility.

Whilst I was sunbathing, I could not seem to think of much else but sex. For sure, a highly influential factor in this train of thought was the ridiculous Jackie Collins book I was reading I had found in my sisters room (honest).

He turned lazily, still asleep, but hard. Nellie opened her legs and he entered her. She breathed his name softly, moving to accomodate him. He came very quicky, eyes still closed. Then he mumbled 'Go to sleep Edna' and turned his back on her.

You can see how I find this sintilating. Bare in mind that this is the girl that saw a'sex scene' between two pensioners on telly one evening at uni and announced to her housemates"I'm going out to pull". A convo with one of the POT's (potentials) from the other night keeps coming back to haunt my hornyness too. However. No-one would fancy me in this state, particularly since the demotion. Well, actually, I'm pretty sure Rick Waller definitely would do me. And maybe Keith from the office. And surely that hairy multi-chinned darts bloke. But that’s all.

Sunday 14th June, 2009. “All the best cowboys have daddy issues”.

Went back to the hospital today. Fortunately the hot doc had the foresight not to be around such a mega buff looking person as myself right now. Elastics were fixed. It felt weird walking in by myself as my mum parked the car because it was just me. Looking like a freak – with no one to hide behind. I felt better once I got back on the ward.

On the way out of the hospital me ma pointed out to me a familiarly large and dumpy looking silhouette sitting outside smoking in a lurid floral dressing gown. Fatty scouse in the corner we meet again. She, somehow, recognises me (I think it’s the brace – because believe me I am unrecognisable) and says I look “great”. Liar. I know it’s a lie because she then tells me she has seen me about on the ward but thought I should be left in peace. I didn’t even go back to her shit ridden ward. I ask how she is “getting on”. This proves to be a mistake of great magnitude. I can’t remember the exact syntax used but it involved the words “size of a”, “blockage”, “melon” and something called a “telescopic intestine” which was followed by a hand gesture. She assures me she is being discharged tomorrow.

Annoyance levels raised on the way home. An old Libertines song which I love comes on the radio (Time for Heroes) but I can’t sing along. I mumble and hum and me ma thinks I am trying to ask for something. When I get home my Dad is in. He is looking at some photos on his digital camera. Some of which are me pre-op. He says "god look at that jaw sticking out there – are you doing that on purpose?". No Dad. No. That was my normal face. I am reminded of the Lost episode entitled, “All the best cowboys have daddy issues”. I am a cowboy. Pew! Pew! And I look better now.

Saturday 13th June, 2009. "Relationships were different in my day".

Its Saturday afternoon. Aunty Betty is coming over. The same unsuspecting Aunty Betty that came round to my student house in second year only to be confronted with my house mates screaming at the unfortunate Jenben "You sucked him off! We know you did!" in the other room. I anticipate this visit will be much more sedate, seeing as I, for one, still cannot feel my face and hence cannot talk to, yet alone taunt, aunty betty with overheard tales of accused fellatio.

Aunty Betty sits in the boiling sun with a light knit sweater on, a beige anorak and a straw hat salvaged for her by me from my brothers room which reads "Buffalo Bill's Disney Land Wild West Show". She chats about how good I look considering the op, and tells me I will have a pretty smile. Me ma comes over and tells me the swelling has gone down dramatically. They both check out my side profile. I still have two chins (as opposed to three) but they both say my profile looks 100 times better.

We have something to eat. It is absolute TORTURE! Ma and Aunty Betty have lasagne and garlic bread. I have the dreaded beaker filled with further liquidised soup (yes folks - turns out the normal soup wasn't quite liquidified enough).Talk / mumbles turns to my recently ended relationship. Aunty Betty morns the loss of beloved Las J. I feel sad. She says "you see relationships were so different in my day", and then goes on tell how when she got married she was forced to leave her job - purely because she got married. I feel fucking glad relationships are different in my day.

We watch Mr Beans Holiday before aunty betty goes home. Throughout Portera (a colleague) is texting me foody taunts, the bastard. He makes me laugh by A) telling me his baby plotted to throw up in his face and then giggled about it and B) referring to one of our other colleagues as a popular item found on the McDonalds menu. Result: Elastics snap again. Back to the hospital tomorrow. Portera claims its erotic. I assure him it is definitely not. Is Pauline Quirk snapping elastic bands erotic? Nope. Thought not. Samething. Goodnight!

Friday 12th June, 2009. "No. I'm always this attractive".

The registrar says I can leave today. I should feel relieved. I do feel relieved. To be out of the hospital. Its just I know what’s coming now. A month of my wonderfully caring ma checking that I’ve got everything I need 24/7. It’s not her fault she's so caring, she gets it from me nan. I reassure her on the way home that if I'm not asking for anything then she can pretty much assume I don’t want anything to avoid future confusion. I know it will be in vain.

Just before we leave the hospital one of the elastics that are holding my jaw together with snaps. The nurse comes and tells me that the doctor will come see me soon to fix it. He is very busy but will be along as soon as he can. SHIT. HE. The only men I’ve seen so far share my gene pool and all staff I have seen so far are female (My surgeon made my face fat so he don’t count as even human no more). I try to gather myself, he's probs old, fatherly and wears corduroy. He is young, fit and wears a necklace that looks like he got it travelling. DOUBLE SHIT. This is almost as bad as the time I was admitted to hospital in the middle of the night with appendicitis and some newly graduated Adonis in a white coat stuck his finger up my arse. Yes in a medical way. Unfortunately. The hot doc opens my mouth to fix my elastics. It involves some poking around, and hurts a bit - as is to be expected. He says "don't worry... I know you’re very swollen", I reply "No. I'm always this attractive". TREBLE SHIT. I just hit on the hot doc looking like Quagmire from Family Guy. Home now please. Quickly.

Thursday 11th June, 2009. "The brother cometh".

Wake up in hospital at 6am to a nice lady trying to serve me breakfast. I don't think she quite understands that my face is fully broken. She offers me bacon on toast. I have not eaten since7pm on Tuesday night. I am ravenous. Try to explain the situation via a series of mumbles, spittings and wild gesticulations. End up with a beaker (A BEAKER!) of milky wheat-a-bix.

During the course of the day I take a look at my new fellow ward mates. Some of the cases are quite sad. A girl with most of her hair missing - which looks like it has been burned off in patches - disappears early morning and does not re-emerge until late in the day. Feel like a bastard for feeling so glum for myself.I chose this. Most of the people in this ward did not. There is however one compadre I have something in common with.

A girl, a bit younger than me has had the same op, but to bring her top teeth back a bit and make her lower jaw more prominent. She has only had work done on one jaw (me both) - she looks better than me. Namely, she don't have no fat face mama. She is nice. Bitch.

Ma and Dad are bringing my brother for the evening visit. I am DREADING IT. My bro cracks me up just by looking at me at the best of times. How in the hell am I going to cope now that I look like somebody took a bicycle pump to my face? I look out into the corridor for some non-medical / patient related person that is preferably small child and easy to scare to test out the reaction of how hideous I look. No such luck. Brother arrives and looks right past me - he does not recognise me! Oh, nope he did. I try so hard not to laugh. It kills. We spend the evening thinking of fat people / freaks that I look like:

· The fat vampire from blade.

· Moonface from Enid Blyton's book the 'The Magical Far-away Tree'.

· The 'Bloaty Head's' from the computer game Theme Hospital

· The taxi driver in 'Home Alone 2: Lost in New York' that says to Kevin when he is running scared in the park "...aint much better in here kid".

That’s all we get for now.

Wednesday 10th June, 2009. "Your face looks a little.... rounder".

Morning. All I can think is - I’m not even sick yet and look what I have endured!!! As she waddles off for the fourth time around six am with a 10 suspicious, no scratch that - it’s obvious what it is, dribble, emerging down her pasty legs.

Lunch time. The time for the op is here. I’m worried. Am I doing the right thing? Everyone says I look fine as I do already. EVERYONE. But I’m not happy and I know there might be a way for me to look and feel better (and have better functionality of my jaw - superficial haters). They ask me one last time am I ready. Yes. To be more than honest I’m freaking out about the massive drip the even massiv-er black guy is about to ram into my arm. Bubba he don't look gentle. Too late it’s in. I’m too flustered to care any way. Friendly father figure anaesthetist guy says "whaddya drink?”. "BEER" comes the woozy answer. "A couple of strong ones coming up luv...."

*************************************************************************************

I wake up. The feeling is reassuringly familiar. Feel sick as a dog. Bad ass dry throat. Banging headache. Last night must have been a cracker. A gentle hand takes my arm and urges me to sit up. Say's something... can’t quite remember what... but it all come flooding back... the operation!!

I am moved from one bed to another, I barely have the strength to lift myself. It’s horrible. This is worse than any hangover... and worryingly I can’t feel my face. All youse out there pay heed! Being able to feel you face without the use of your hands, or a damp flannel - as you will see later - is a great privilege. I throw up two bowls of blood. Somewhere in the foreign recesses of my mind it actually reminds me of the time I was sick red aftershock in "bar flava" when I was 16. I philosophize now that I had this thought as coming round from the op was such an alien experience for me that I was searching for experiences to liken it to. Not sure what I think of the memory banks that chose being hung-over and being sick.

My parents arrive a couple of hours later when I am back on the "specialist" ward. I recognise me ma's heels coming down the hospital corridor. My Dad's face is funny when he first sees me. I can tell he loves me and he cares but something has perturbed him. I am aware there must be muchos swelling of my face but I've been too dazed to think about it.

"Your face looks a little..... rounder" he says. "The mirror!!!" I demand – a la some kind of Frankenstein show from the 1930’s - I can’t believe I have not cared to look at what I look like until now. Well. All I can say is it’s a bloody good job I’ve got a sense of humour. What I see could have destroyed other mid-twenties aged girls obsessed with looking like Megan Fox (although would rather have a border line eating disorder than go to the actual gym to do owt about it). MY FACE IS FAT. My jaw is fixed. But my face.... my face is fat man- and I don’t mean just chubby, like. I mean 3 chins and jowls fat. I try to crack a smile. It hurts.

My parents visit is lovely, although passes in a haze of my conscious interjecting every mumbled conversation with.... "YOU'VE GOT A FAT FACE!". I communal text everyone that I'm ok and have not died and there is no need to inform my mum I wanted "Smack me Bitch Up" played at my funeral just yet.

I try to sleep but secretly look forward to what I know is coming. (What else do I have to look forward to - I have a fat face). The nurse bring the pain killer trolley round like some kind of narcotically loaded airhostess from morphine heaven. She attempts to give me codine, orally, as I have to get used to ingesting orally. Now. I'm a up for it gal, I’ve been ingesting orally since I was 15. I’m not missing out on some hard core intravenous action. I throw a fit and insist she is trying to kill me by forcing me to take drugs orally. Now hook me up to the morphine. There. That’s better.

more cheese and crackers

As I enter the ward and say goodbye to me ma I try to settle down by oh I dunno texting everyone I know. Including those in Australia. A discussion is in progress between my companions for the night discussing the amount of food they have been given at dinner. I can see the remnants it looks well nice - free fish and chips. Fatty scouse in the corner is not happy. She has had her soup, fish and chips, jelly and ice cream and is still not happy. "The menu yesterday said there would be cheese and crackers; you know when you just fancy something... some cheese and crackers!!". UGH! How can one place be such a living stereotype! No beds and now a fat person moaning because she did not get the advertised four courses of free food instead of the provided three. Wench. Try to settle my textual arguments / flirtations / banters and go to bed.

Midnight. Groaning. Fatty scouse in the corner. More groaning. Alarm bell. Nurses come, cleans bed. Go.

1.30am. Groaning. Fatty scouse in the corner. More groaning. Alarm bell. Nurses come, cleans bed. Go.

3.30am. Groaning. Fatty scouse in the corner. More groaning. Alarm bell. Nurses come, cleans bed. Go. Fatty now decides the time is ripe to call her husband to inform him of what is happening. Everyone else is seemingly oblivious and asleep. HOW?! Seems to have ended. So glad there were no cheese and crackers.

Tuesday 9th June 2009. "Cheese and Crackers".

Ok so after about a year and a half of wearing the most god dam ugly dental braces (ugliness increased 10 fold in the last two months when my dentist informed me he needed to "make some additions in preparation for the operation". Spikes. No shit honestly. The guy gave me weapons on my brace. Also to be used to wire my jaw together after the op.) I am here! In Aintree University Hospital Liverpool, Ward 1. It’s the day before my operation. I am on a ‘general’ ward because there are "no beds" on the specialist ward. I would not expect anything less.

"Why whiccha why”

These are some notes I started making to keep me sane in the long month to be spent recovering back at my parents house after my Osteotomy… I can’t say it either. It’s an operation I had on my face really is the best way to describe it. Ever since my teens I was conscious of my lower jaw sticking out and my bottom teeth coming over my top teeth not the other way around like most of douse lot are. SO! I enquired if there was anything that could be done about it... on the NHS of course.. for free.