I can well remember the first time I was offered plastic surgery. I must have been about 8. She was about 10. We were both precocious, but I suspect that she was more likely to follow a medical career than I.
‘Do you want this chair in your face?’ she said. ‘Do you want plastic surgery?’
‘What’s that?’ I was innocent.
‘I can stick this chair through your head and smash your brains! Or between your legs, do you want that?’
She’s probably a GP by now.
The second time it was suggested that I have plastic surgery was about a decade later. (I escaped the chair incident mostly unscathed). A fellow student suggested it would ‘help’.
A third offering should be due.
And so the memory-machine churns and turns.