‘You don’t look like Gregory House, do you?’ she asked me
tonight. ‘He frowns a lot.’
How do I explain to her that no, I don’t look like Gregory
House, and neither do I frown a lot. The fact is that I never stop frowning. I
can’t because I’m a keenly aware and highly sensitive individual who has lived
a chequered and somewhat unconventional life, the upshot of which has been that
my frown lines began early and grew exponentially as each year passed wearily
by. My frown lines now look like Clapham Junction from the air and there’s
nothing I can do about it.
I do try, you know. Sometimes I look in the mirror and try
to ameliorate them by stretching my forehead sideways, but trains could still
run on them with consummate ease. They’ve even got points to ensure that the
Eastbourne trains don’t accidentally end up in Southampton.
I suspect the only solution might be to treat them with
embalming fluid, but I doubt such a product is easily purchased over the
counter. Maybe I’ll pay a visit to the Co-op funeral parlour in Uttoxeter and
ask whether they might decant a few fluid ounces into the little urine sample
bottle I’ve had in my backpack ever since last year’s health issues were in full
swing. I think it might be advisable to wait until the priestess’s visit is
imminent, however. I hate to think that some unsuspecting funeral parlour
receptionist might come over all queer when faced with such an unconventional
request unless the balance of interests warranted it.
And all this does make me wonder just what other strange
things people carry around in their bags. The next time I see somebody I know,
maybe I should ask them:
‘Have you got anything strange in your bag?’
‘What sort of strange?’
‘Well, I’ve got a urine sample pot in mine. I’m keeping it
in case I should need a little embalming fluid.’
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