Not going to be brave


The verucca is no longer a laughing matter. It has been elevated to ‘serious’ via ‘sodding painful’. It’s increased in diameter from a 5p piece last week to a penny, and in elevation from, er, pretty flat to really sticky out. It requires TWO normal plasters to cover it. God, what if it’s like an iceberg and only one-fifth (or whatever it is) is visible above the surface? Blimey, I could get a job in a freak show.

I walked home from town yesterday. A mistake. I faffed about at the start and couldn’t make up my mind as to route (Bloomsbury to Tooting – so the field is wide open, so to speak) and ended up taking absolutely the ugliest. Kingsway, Waterloo Bridge, along river (nice) to Vauxhall Cross, Wandsworth Road (what crapholes they are) then up Cedars Road, across Clapham Common and down. Not only did that mean I was sucking up bus fumes for most of the walk, but by the time I got to Vauxhall I was considering building a porch out of the side of my trainer to house The Monster. Throb throb throb.

This Saturday I’m supposed to be going walking in Purbeck in Dorset with my father. (Just to underline what a well rounded person I am, I spent last Saturday night in Soho at Noel Fielding’s exhibition press opening, and then to the Coach & Horses next door with about 50,000 very drunk gay people after Pride. It was like the fall of Rome.) Anyway, I’m still going to Purbeck, but I’ll be sure and complain all the way. We should have a beach party afterwards, because we’ll be able to toast marshmallows off The Monster by the end of it. Throb throb throb.


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