I’m afraid I’ve not really had time for a proper, waffly post in the last few days. Chaos looms in the world of Oddbloke.
I’m trying to balance my free time between preparing for a job-interview and technical test which is likely to be extremely difficult, and getting my iPhone game finished in time for a self-imposed deadline. Whilst all this is going on, my three-year-old seems to have resumed her old habit of waking up at 3am daily and demanding a snack (I do not cope with well with interrupted sleep) and my wife is recovering from the ‘flu.
On the plus side, a very kind gentleman has given me his collection of BBC Micro kit (four model Bs, two Masters, a carload of manuals, disks, and other gadgets). I am as happy as a tapeworm in a Ginster’s pasty … but I’m very weak-willed and distractions like this aren’t helping my studies or home projects.
So this week my blogging is further down the priority list than usual. I do hope you’ll forgive me, as I can offer you nothing more than an anecdote about me and my zits. Or, to put it another way: my zits and I.
I consider squeezing zits to be one of life’s great, unsung solo-pleasures that your body offers you (I shall ignore the one that is top of most people’s list). Pleasures like farting in the bath, or one of those bowel movements that makes pixies dance in front of your eyes and helps your trousers fit better afterwards.
I am one of nature’s Born Squeezers. I cannot leave them alone. At the merest hint of a slight blemish, I’m digging at my face rather like that mirror-in-the-bathroom scene from Poltergeist.
Even when it’s an iceberg (one tenth above the surface, nine tenths below) and it would make more sense to leave it alone to brew like a strong cup of tea … I am incapable of doing so. After twenty minutes of picking I look like I’ve been shot in the nose with an air-rifle. I usually only stop when I realise I’m hemmoraging. Apparently it looks terrible, and scares paramedics. I got home late from work the other night, and went to check that my son was asleep in bed … It took us quite a while to stop him screaming.
Of course, there’s the other end of the zit-scale: the awesome ones that (as if by magic) appear overnight. The ones that almost look like another head is growing out of you (ask Richard E Grant). In my experience, they appear the morning after a good kebab or Chinese takeaway. These appeal to the voyeur in me – I like to find a mirror and watch all the gory glory as I despatch them with as much force and velocity as I can angle in to them. If I can’t make the after-effects of a Donner-Shish mix travel six feet from my face to the bathroom mirror then I feel let down.
But then there’s the ones that taunt me. They’re big and juicy, and I don’t realise I have it until I’m on the bus, or driving. Last week I had one of those … but it appeared just inside my ear. I didn’t realise it was there until I absent-mindedly scratched my ear whilst driving to work. I just touched it. Just a tickle.
BANGttttttthhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrpp! The noise (to me) was deafening. A riotous explosion of improvised-roadside-device proportions, combined with the malfunctioning Espresso Machine of The Apocalypse. I was convinced that the fuzzy-wuzzies had arrived in the Midlands and started shelling the A52 at Bramcote (though this may not be a bad thing). And were using giant Whooppee Cushions, too.
I spent a good few minutes clearing out the goo that was collecting around the inside of my ear, probably making me at least as dangerous on the road as some idiot on his mobile. Sadly there were no McDonalds napkins in the car, so I had to improvise. I shall not go into details, but the chap who valeted my car at the end of the week really earnt his eight quid.
This entry was written in a cafe in Derby, with my iPod Touch and free Wifi. If you ever get the opportunity to write a decent-sized document with a tiny MP3 player’s touchscreen … My advice is not to bother.