I now have an Orf blister forming on my nose. If it grows to the size of the one on my thumb you will be reading about me in the National Enquirer, alongside suggestions that a small nation has been founded therein, where dwell Elvis, Shergar and Lord Lucan, hidden behind its mountainous excrescence.
Suggestions are welcome, as I have wracked my brains trying to decide whether I will be more accepted in Morrison’s wearing a Balaclava, full Burqa, pantomime belly dancer’s face veil, a huge plaster (might be hard to breathe) – or shall I just not go out for 6 weeks.
It has brought home to me how vain I am, although I did not know it. I used to be quite the avantgarde of fashion, being the first person in 70’s Andover to have hair in three colours, and a few safety pins adorning my punctured self. Since getting middle-aged and rural, I pay more attention to the weather resistance of my gear, rather than its look, and after many disappointing and expensive failures, I cut my own hair. I wear make-up when there is an ‘r’ in the month that coincides with a rain of fish in the Orient, and I award myself a gold-star when the rare day dawns that I finish a jar of moisturiser.
It surprises me therefore, how much this further development of the alien invasion has got me down. I am a bit fed up with feeling below par, but to have to see this evidence of dis-ease every time I clean my teeth is making me feel very low. I know on the scale of things it is nothing, and I know it will go eventually, but at the moment I do not have a reasonable perspective on it. Right now I feel blighted. Anyone know what Louise Hay has to say about viral infections and facial blemishes? Any affirmation will do!