Remember my catchline: ‘where humour is your secret weapon’? Well, this week two different NHS teams have proved just how true that is…

First up was the dermatology crew at West Suffolk. A few weeks ago my beloved spouse noticed a mark on my back that stood out from the rest. (Tricky, as my back – at the best of times – looks a bit like a heavily-shelled no-man’s land, with lumps, bumps, and scabs everywhere…)

This one, though, was black. And sinister. And evil-looking. (Though I confess I couldn’t hear its rebreather unit…)

Cutting a long story short, this week its time was up. It was about to be excised. Eliminated. Sent to join the choir eternal…

And that task was in the hands of the delightful Helen and Janie. They didn’t actually use The Force, but they did achieve the departure of the Black Thing with verve, humour, and little or no actual pain. Huge kudos to them – and on to the next…

The following day I was due at Addenbrookes for a CT scan to pinpoint the exact position of Boris the Bloated Bastard tumour. In order to bombard said Bloated Bastard with precision-targeted radiotherapy. This involved removing my trousers and revealing my 15th-century knickers to an enraptured audience. While I explained that they ought to be on prescription for anyone with a hydrocele as spectacular as mine.

‘We’ll need to mark the spot’, they said. ‘Are you OK with that?’

‘You’re giving me tats?’ I cried. ‘Excellent! Can you do me a Thor’s hammer?’

Sadly, they couldn’t. Definitely cool tats, though…

We chuckled and joked the rest of the way through the procedure, and I left with a big grin on my face. And new tattoos.

Definitely a win…