The Operation

I’m in hospital waiting for an operation. Bored, I buy a kit car mini. I realise I don’t know how to build it. I hire in a team of Japanese engineers. We transform my ward into a garage for assembly. The only other patient is a frail old lady. I promise her that we’ll be very quiet. I have an operation. When I return to the ward, 12Y, it’s all gone. Just beds and boredom. I search the hospital pushing an in flight rubbish trolley. Are they called a gash? 
Belgians struggle with the concept of not boarding a plane unless they’re flying. I push past them. Outside, badly parked American school buses obstruct bends in the road. 
I’m looking for an address. I have the right road, but the numbers aren’t in order, like Tokyo. Policemen direct me. We discuss the state of my health. 
I walk past a woman, she is sat at a hospital desk by the roadside. She’s on the phone. She shoos me away when I ask to borrow a pen. I want to write down my symptoms. 
My scrotum is huge. At least two pairs of balls in there. I appear to also have another set, of as yet undescended, testicles. On my left thigh, I find, and remove a vestigial penis. 
I head back to my ward, passing private nurses at play. I wonder what they did, when they operated on me. 


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