13th October, 2009 - Pizza Face

I have a zit on the back of my neck.

I am 42 years old. I should no longer be burdened with acne. Particularly, I should not be burdened with the hugely irritating kind of plook that you know is going to be a “biggy”, but is not quite ripe enough to burst. So you have to squirm for a couple of days with your shirt collar chafing it, and aggravating it into a one tenth scale model of Mount Vesuvias, before it erupts in an oozing column of pus at some important meeting, where everyone else are real, proper grown ups, whereas I will be revealed to be a hormone-addled teenager who somehow saved up enough money for a suit from Ralf Slaters.

I should have left all this behind me when I left my teenage years. I served my time. I was a spotty adolescent. In fact, I was probably the spottiest adolescent in my year at school, earning the hilarious nickname “pizza face” for a period of at least 18 months. At a time when I should have been turning young girls’ heads, my only serious relationship was with the pharmacist on the minor ailments counter at Boots, who clearly saw my repeat-prescription of Clearasil as a meal ticket for life.

Righto. I am off to give this thing a squeeze.