I'm currently writing a book.
I write it on the train every morning in the vain hope that I can prove to a Facebook "Friend" that sleeping on trains is a waste of time.
It's kind of a blog and I write about things that happen in my boring life.
Unfortunately (and you will know what I mean by that when you read the content) this is not fiction..... it is most definitely based on fact.
Friday 2nd November 2012
This morning I feel like a teenager again. I don't mean it in the same way as when middle aged people say it to try and explain how they feel when they finally meet someone who wants to have sex with them. No. I feel like a teenager again because I have woken up with a massive spot on my nose.
I feel that I need to explain exactly how big this spot is. You are probably picturing a red mark, a relatively small, insignificant mark that any adult could easily get on with. Stop picturing that small red mark. This is not a spot, a blemish or a pimple. This is a huge embarrassing zit.
It is so big that it seems to have its own pulse. It's in that awkward place where I can actually see it out of the corner of my eye. I can't even just try and forget about it, as every time I look down, I think I have smeared jam on my face.
I would honestly rather have a black eye, or a busted nose than have to deal with this spot. I would rather people assume that I have a drink problem or that I am the victim of domestic abuse, then have them looking at my spot and questioning my facial hygiene.
When I think about it, I have probably neglected my face when it comes to pampering. I watch my wife do things to her face that I thought were only carried out at Spa's. When I say Spa's, I mean the things that used to be called health farms before fat people started going, not the chain of tired old convenience stores where fat people have always been going.
I've been reliably informed in the past that my wife washes, tones, cleanses and moisturises, although I will never know in which order they happen. If she was a car, she would be selecting the Platinum Wash and if I was a car I would simply be using a bucket and sponge, probably bought from the Spa.
As a man in his thirties, I feel woefully exposed, without any excuses to cling to or make up to hide behind. If I was a teenager, or for that matter a female, it could easily be excused as something to do with hormones, diet or stress, or a combination of all three; but I'm not, I'm a balding bloke in his thirties; so just deal with it baldy!
I've decided that I am going to have to try and cover it up; it is just too big to ignore. If I left it, it wouldn't just be the elephant in the room, it would be the mammoth in the broom cupboard. People would be talking to me thinking "Don't mention the zit" and I would be thinking "He's noticed the zit and now I have put him in this awkward position of having to tell himself not to mention the zit"
As soon as this train pulls in to the station I am going to make my way to boots and I am going to buy some plasters. I will select the smallest one and place it over the bridge of my nose. There are three ways to play this.
Option 1. Stroll confidently into work, plaster on nose and say nothing. A risky strategy, that will almost certainly result in whispers and strange looks, but I might just be able to get through the day unscathed.
Option 2. Stroll confidently into work, plaster on nose and say, wow, they were not wrong about these nasal breathing strips, that was the best nights sleep I have had in ages. Another risky strategy, as I might have to explain the pros and cons of a product that I have neeither used, or intend to use.
Option 3. Stroll confidently into work, plaster on nose and point and say "Look everyone, I have a huge zit on my nose, I can't face you having to look at this disgusting scab on my face all day, so I have done the best I could do in a bad situation. It's covered up, it looks stupid I know, but can we all just get on with the day, I'll make the coffee, and lets all just concentrate on the fact that it's the weekend in nine hours time.
Against my better judgment, I am going to go for option three. I will be completely honest about why it is there, while not brave enough to show why it is there.
Honesty over bravery.
The whimps way out.
Never take me to war; the enemy would have me blurting out secrets before they had a chance to strap me to the chair.