Three hours. Three hours sleep. I feel how Wendy Richard looks. After a year and a half with eczema, I can now reasonably conclude that the following aggravations set a little army of Fire Ants under my skin all night, and must in future be drastically limited.
Black coffee. Already you might just as well tell me to stop breathing oxygen.
Excessive alcohol consumption. “I wasn’t aware I was drinking excessively,” as the alcoholic said to the port glass.
Spicy food. This is getting worse.
Chocolate. No!
Cheese. NO!
Smoking. [shoves fingers in ears] La la la! Can’t hear you! La la la!
Stress. You’d have thought the pragmatic solution would be to cut down on my working hours and be subsidised travelling to and from work in taxis, but for some reason this suggestion didn’t go down well.
Singleness. “Marry me. I have eczema.”
DNA coding. I knew being human wasn’t all the brochure boasted it was.
Television programmes featuring Lisa Riley.
Temporal radiation. Fatal in large doses. Known to cause mild skin irritations in reduced exposures.
Tuesdays.
Fun. Apparently.
That’s all I can remember Ma’am. But if I think of any more I will let you know.
