I was in New York for the holidays so took the opportunity to see a plastic surgeon up there. I was a bit ‘meh’ about the whole thing initially because I’d previously met with a lovely lady who I was confident was the right fit. Well… Enter Dr. S. Dynamic Park Avenue plastic surgeon extraordinaire.

I discovered him in a Facebook group aimed at mothers of the Upper East Side, a group I’d joined for ideas about what to do with the tiny human when we’re in the city. I put an anonymous post out into the ether and I got a response. A brief exchange of messages with a kind lady and a look at his website made me think that he was definitely someone to seek an opinion from. His credentials are tip top to the point that he’s almost showing off.

I was immediately taken aback because he’s younger than me, not bad looking, and has the disarming charm of a man who knows that he is the absolute tits at what he’s doing. He gave me the gift of time, and I never felt rushed at all during the appointment. I was a blethering twat, fuelled with a nervousness which upon reflection I think was linked to the PTSD the IVF has left me with. I got rejected by so many doctors during that time for reasons either related to weight or the bloody thyroid, that I was just constantly expecting him to reject me on the spot for some spurious reason. My heart was thumping in my chest and I could. not. stop.talking. (unsurprising to most who know me really, but this was some next level shit)

He then got the great privilege of seeing me in the nud. At that point I was weirdly less nervous, and even took it upon myself to unleash a solidly shit joke on his assistant which was something along the lines of “I bet you didn’t expect a treat like this at 11.30am on a Monday”. Which went down like the sack of shit that one would expect. I was prodded and poked, and there was something utterly liberating about telling a doctor who’s job is to make the body beautiful all of the things you really fucking hate about your own. He even got a naked bingo wing flap, lucky bloke.

He lifted my gut with utter delicacy and I muttered something along the lines of “Well that’s fucking going for a start”.

Indeed.