Good moaning to one and all.

Well, they booted me out of the Norfolk and Norwich hospital a day earlier than planned (maybe an asylum-seeker needs my bed), and I can't say I'm unhappy about that. I do have to attend the local James Paget hospital for daily dressing changes under anesthetic until the wounds made by my surgery have healed enough to be dressed at home by the lovely Macmillan Nurses, who specialise in care for cancer patients.

It's only because I've been parked in a wheelchair (very comfy it is, too) that I can, despite the protests of Her Indoors, use my desktop PC to post one or two items. I'll be on my back later.

I wanted to be conscious while the surgeons performed their magic on me, so that I could keep my eye on things and make sure they didn't go wrong, but they insisted that wasn't possible and they knew what they were doing, thank you very much. So out I went and woke up some hours later minus about a quarter of my lung capacity, ministered to by a squadron of nurses.

The trick with nurses is to work out which one wields the most power and tell her she has the most beautiful blue/green/grey/[whatever] eyes you've ever seen. That gets you everywhere. You're enjoying a nice cup of tea and a piece of heavily buttered toast while all the other patients on the ward are dying of thirst and hunger.

Always flatter the nurses. Rule No.1 of going into hospital.

I woke up feeling like I'd done for a brewery or two. And as if a ten-ton truck had slammed into my back.

The wound, more or less where the left shoulder-blade begins to taper, is about three inches long. It doesn't look much, and it's surprising what they can do through such a small opening, but much of that quadrant of my back is black and blue, as if the surgeons had discharged me into the care of Picasso, who promptly got to work on it.

They had to prise my ribs apart to get at the lung, and it is the pain of that I have ripping through me, despite being given more fentanyl than you can find on a Venezualan speed boat.

Right now I would not try to enter the USA for fear DJT would blow me up.

Talking of DJT, I've only just seen a recording of the press conference held with that miserable plank of wood, Keir Starmer who somehow - nobody's worked it out yet - became the King's first minister. The voters must have been on more fentanyl than I am.

I loved that even the liberal British media put questions that made the personality-free Starmer squirm. It was obvious, though, that the conference was somewhat rigged when GB News's lovely Bev Turner (now based in your capital, you lucky devils) asked a question that should have had Starmer reaching for the suicide pills, but he was saved when an American, on cue, rudely interjected. I'm fairly sure that Team Trump, wanting to keep uncomfortable moments to a minimum, were behind that.

The speak-your-weight machine that is our prime minister was ripped to pieces in the British press for his bland and insincere performance. Maybe he could use a large dose of fentanyl - I've got loads to spare.

All of which is as much to say that my operation went well. There's another one to look forward to later in the year, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I hope everybody on here is hale and hearty, and my very best wishes to those who aren't.

My kindest regards to you all.