A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a swelling in my groin. Oh, bugger, I thought, it’s not a hernia… Oh, but it was… That was confirmed by the local doctor.

I mean, there’s something faintly ridiculous about a hernia. You would think that evolution would design the muscles around the abdomen to hold it all in, but no, the small intestine is just gagging for the chance to *pop* out through the muscles and luxuriate as an unwelcome swelling under my skin.

I wouldn’t mind so much, but I’ve been here before. Admittedly, it was fifty years ago, but still: "been there, done that, got the T-shirt". Then, as a child of seven, and the first time I’d been operated on, it was all a bit scary. I still remember being wheeled into a room just by the operating theatre and being left there for what seemed like hours (it was probably all of five minutes). I got thoroughly worked up because, as I lay there on the trolley, I could look around the room at all the glass-fronted cabinets stuffed to the gills with knives, saws, scalpels and things that, while I had no idea of what they could do, certainly seemed to be promising a lifetime of pain.

Fast-forward fifty years, and here I go again. Once more into the breach, dear friends. Or rather, once more to repair the breach… This time, this being the Netherlands, I don’t get a general anaesthetic. Oh no, I get a needle in my back that is supposed to deaden my nether regions while the surgeon fiddles around. I’m not sure which is worse, actually. To pass out completely and to be blissfully unaware, or to be conscious and have the chance of hearing the surgeon say "oh, shit".

I saw the anaesthetist yesterday to agree on the method of anaesthesia. Well, in principle, one has a choice, but I have the impression that people end up with whatever the anaesthetist wants.

I confess that it didn’t boost my confidence one jot when the anaesthetist asked to see my back. I assumed that he wanted to see where he was going to stick the needle, but he was muttering that it must be very low down. I suddenly realised that he was looking for the hernia. "Er, no," I hastily clarified, "the hernia is in my groin – at the front, not at the back". Duh. I’m seriously considering following a friend’s suggestion and using a felt-tip pen to mark the spot, together with helpful messages such as "my leg does not need to be amputated", and "my kidneys are perfectly fine, thank you very much".

I have to report to the hospital at 07:45 am on Tuesday morning. With luck, they’ll kick me out, still breathing, more or less in one piece, but with the bonus of extra stitches, later that day.

Watch this space.

Update: A Dutch friend points out that the Dutch word  for "slipped disc" is "hernia", while the Dutch for "hernia" is "lies breuk" (pronounced leece brurk). That is almost certainly the cause of the confusion with the anaesthetist, but the worrying thing is that I’m pretty sure that I didn’t say "hernia". As best I can recall, he consulted my case notes and then asked to see my back. When I said that I had a "lies breuk" (in my best Dutch), he then scratched something out and wrote something else in my notes. The more I think about it, the more the felt-tip pen plan seems like a good idea…