Soon to be knocked out with a general anaesthetic, Pixelsmith ponders his fate (n.b. this was printed in Pix's paper a few months back, so the time references are all now horrific lies).

I'LL probably be unconscious as you read this. While you're sat there tucking into a nice cup of tea and some delicious cake, I'll be out cold on a hospital bed with the clammy digits of a dental surgeon prodding the inside of my mouth.

Look at you, with your internet and top hat and chauffeur and fully functional cognitive processes, lording it around in the world of the conscious while people like me are having their teeth removed. I'd be annoyed with you if I were awake. But I'm not, so it's fine. You enjoy yourself.

In the grand scheme of health-related things, having a wisdom tooth out isn't particularly impressive. It loiters at the low end of the surgical scale alongside procedures like getting your ears syringed, removing an ingrowing toenail and having an expensive haircut.

The reason that I'm unconscious for a piece of oral surgery which can be achieved with a local anaesthetic is twofold. Firstly, it's a bit fiddly - supposedly the surgery has a one per cent chance of leaving you with permanent numbness or tingling in your face, which seems a bit severe. Secondly, I was asked if I wanted a general anaesthetic, and I replied yes, yes please, I would rather not be awake while a man removes a chunk of bone from the inside of my face with a special spanner. I'd rather have a nice sleep.

It certainly helps that I'm not afraid of dentists. My childhood consumption of sweets was heavily rationed, meaning that my dentist was little more than a yes man for the first decade, declaring an oral all clear every time I entered the building.

There was a downside to this plan. Abstinence has never been the most solid foundation for a life of moderation, so when I emerged from the cocoon of village primary school life into the bustling metropolis of a small Yorkshire market town at the age of 11, my parents lost control of the supply chain and I fell headlong into sugar addiction.

I was like a young desert boy experiencing snow for the first time, only the snow had 200 different flavours and came from the newsagent instead of the sky. My habit went from the occasional Mint Imperial stolen from the bowl in the living room at my best friend's house to around 200 sherbet lemons a week.

The sweet intake ironed itself out after four or five years, helpfully just in time to coincide with my introduction to alcohol (which was also something of a mythical beast, as my parents didn't drink). I'm still waiting for that one to iron itself out.

Unfortunately I can't blame either substance for today's operation. Wonky wisdom teeth, presumably, are generally down to bad genes. So I'm blaming my parents.

The procedure, minor though it is, feels significant for a couple of reasons. For one thing, it's the first time I'm undergoing a general anaesthetic. I expect all that really means is that I'm terribly naive, but as I've only ever previously lost consciousness in the company of family, friends and pet cats, I have no idea what could happen when I'm surrounded by healthcare professionals. I might sign the wrong forms when I'm groggy and wake up as a woman.

It also represents my first experience with the world of executive healthcare, as it's taking place at a private hospital. I was sent there at the expense of the NHS because the nearby state place was fully booked up, and I'm kind of looking forward to it.

Apparently you get your own butler and a complimentary Botox injection, which I'm going to have put in my feet to see if it makes me taller. The Botox, obviously, not the butler.

Anyway, if you're reading this before my operation, wish me luck. And if you're reading it afterwards, my new name is Sandra.