Becoming Quasimodo.

A major disaster has struck in the form of a thing on the side of my nose which is alternatively called a pimple or a zit in Britain. This is most uncharacteristic of me because I was around 25 the last time I had one. I just don’t get them, and I always feel a bit sorry for those who do because they make you look unhealthy. And when they appear on the face, well… I’m not much to look at as it is, but now I’m subject to the barking of dogs, the pointing of humans, and the mischievous grins of the heavenly host whom I can almost hear mutter: ‘You must have done something to deserve it.’ Or so it seems to me.

A case in point: There’s a woman I often see walking around Ashbourne. I saw her today and she smiled at me. She’s never smiled at me before and I’ve never smiled at her, so why today? Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? She wasn’t smiling at me at all, she was suppressing a full-bellied guffaw at the sight of a little red protuberance glowing and pulsating and attracting the stares of people in precisely the same way that moths are unfailingly attracted to a lantern in the darkest hour before dawn.

And maybe it explains my latest curious experience in the coffee shop. The girl at the counter called out to the one making the drinks: ‘Small Americano with half a pot of cream.’ When I walked over to collect it, I discovered that the latter had heard: ‘Half a cup of Americano, black.’ It isn’t difficult to work out what caused the loss of concentration, is it?

I don’t expect it to last long – maybe a day or two at most – but it seems that, for the time being, the order is to stay indoors and keep a large paper bag handy, just in case I get a rash of people knocking on the door with some disingenuous excuse to want my attention. I’ll know what they’ve really come to look at.