I exchange consent for horse tranquiliser and take a seat in the waiting room. Wednesday is mayhem in Ashgrove Surgery. The vasectomy clinic collides with toddler immunisation. The furnishings are tacky with drooling infants but examples of bad parenting mellow as my drugs take effect. After twenty-five minutes the previous victim emerges. He’s supported by a nurse and walks as though he has a fire ants in his trousers. It’s my turn.
The surgeon and nurse work like a magical double act, always talking round what they’re about to do as they cover me in a sheet, with a hole for context. The surgeon moves my parts like a rodent that might still bite and the nurse makes us tea while we wait for the anaesthetic to take effect. I feel nothing as the surgeon uses his pocket chainsaw to make an incision. The nurse, dressed in a wetsuit climbs into the opening. I can see she has a sword. ‘What is the box for,’ I ask. ‘Sandwiches in case I get peckish’. Using a compass she locates the relevant duct work and removes two sections to reduce the risk of re-fusing. The removed pieces look like a spaghetti and are sent off for biopsy to make sure no other Italian cuisine has been removed. The nurse exposes the four severed ends of my tubes to the surgeon who cauterizes them with a cigarette. I catch the smell of burning sperm cells, its only the tranquiliser safety net that stops me throwing up. ‘No need to stitch this one up.’ There is a countdown, my tubes snap inside and a steam whistle screams. I am shovelled into the waiting room, my legs have switched off, there’s a nest of fire ants in my trousers and two million stairs.