9 a.m.
This morning, after almost a year on the NHS waiting list, a nice man with a scalpel is finally going to warm the heart of my cockles. That doesn't stop my wife letting me walk the last 150 metres to the day procedure unit at Belfast's City Hospital. She's afraid she won't be able to get the people carrier turned if she goes any further.
We've had a slight spat on the way and now, as I climb out, she has a last-minute change of heart. Leaning over to the passenger seat she calls me back and plants a kiss. "I suppose I'd better," she grins, "just in case." Aaagh! The woman is a doctor, and obviously knows something I haven't been told.
9.30 a.m.
Four of us, in a locker room, clambering out of our trousers, trying to look cool wobbling around on one foot ("everything off except your shoes and socks"). One of the guys has a panic attack - and it's nothing to do with the backless, stripy gowns we've been instructed to don. Bizarrely he's only just realised that today's procedure will be done under general anaesthetic, not local. A doctor is summoned.
"Believe me," he tells the waverer, "you don't want to have this under local." Alas, his no doubt well-intentioned words fall on deaf ears; the patient does a runner. The rest of us study our toes in silence.
9.45 a.m.
A nurse goes through my preflight checklist.
Allergies? "None."
Crowns? "Yep, a few."
Hip replacement? "What!?"
I'm cleared for takeoff. Or takeoff a bit.
11.20 a.m.
Escorted into the theatre by the anaesthetist. In the corner two surgeons glance over while continuing to chat. As I clamber onto the table a nurse, matadorlike, does her best to shield my exposed derriere with a small towel. The anaesthetist - evidently my surgeon's representative on earth - takes up position on my left, tells me about the cold tingling sensation I'll feel in my arm and then promptly reappears on the other side in the form of a blonde, female nurse who informs me that it's all over. I'm on a ward. I've been out cold for 20 minutes.
Noon
Coffee and toast. First food and liquid for 14 hours. I feel great, and tell my minder. Ah, she confides, that'll be the painkillers.
She's reassures me that I'm doing fine. "I had a look," she says.
12.30 p.m.
Haven't dressed this slowly since I was five. Examine myself closely. That's interesting, I'm nearly certain those two neat little holes on either side of my scrotum weren't there this morning.
12.55 p.m.
Three of us are lounging in an ante-room, legs studiously far apart. (Think John Wayne in an armchair.) Actually, this isn't at all as bad as I expected - and I come from a long line of hypochondriacs. A slight stinging sensation, certainly, around the site of the two incisions, and a few minor cramps in my lower abdomen. But none of that dreaded kick-in-the-goolies pain.
I start swapping children's ages with the guy beside me. We turn to the other pilgrim. "And what age are yours?" He has to think: "33, 30 and 27," he replies slowly. We look at him. "I had a hernia," he explains. No one says anything for a while after that. The exceedingly well-preserved hernia man nods off.
1.01 p.m.
The TV in the corner announces Tony Blair's unexpected fatherhood.
Ha! we cackle, in unison. Hernia Man wakes up with a jolt. Twenty minutes later I'm released back into the community.
Next day
So far so good. Wear something tight-fitting, they said, and continue to use contraception. Today I'm taking no chances on either score: I've got on three pairs of jockeys plus a new pair of swimming togs. (Which is, I know, totally OTT. Two would probably do.)
Seriously, this has been a doddle. This morning's hot bath was just the business and anything a couple of paracetemol can't fix I'll discuss later by the fireside with Mr Jameson. The way I look at it, I've saved the doctor (the one I'm married to) the prospect of more complicated surgery than I've just undergone - abdominal surgery carries a greater risk and has a longer recovery time - and already she's showing her approval. I'm her New Man. So go for it, lads. Collect your brownie points now.