Hacking at the Holy Grail.

I gather cosmetic surgery is the in thing at the moment. Personally, I wouldn’t have anything to with it, even if I could afford to. I would rather my face looked like Clapham Junction from the air than something the local mortician has been practising on. Nevertheless, I can understand that some people have an ego problem big enough to make the prospect attractive.

So, I understand why people have face jobs, because we show our faces to the world at large. I can also, just about, understand why women have boob jobs, because they are at least visible in profile, if not in detail. (Having said which, I never liked big ones anyway; but that’s just a matter of personal preference, and one I happen to consider commendable.) What I truly don’t understand is why women have the bit at the other end worked on.

Women don’t exactly flash that bit around in Sainsbury’s, do they? Apart from certain professionals, even the most profligate reveal it to only a very small number of people – those whom they feel have a right to be interested in it. And that usually means male sexual partners.

My problem is this: if any woman in whom I’d had that sort of interest had revealed to me that some man with a sharp knife had been fiddling with her credentials, I’d have run a mile. It would have been a real turn-off. Might as well have saved all the emotional difficulties that attach to real women and bought a blow-up doll, don’t you think?

Maybe I was just born in the wrong century. Or the right one, depending on your point of view. Or maybe I’m just an example of life, Jim, but not as we know it.