Protruded

I'm in the middle of a health crisis.

Of course, for me, a health crisis is me thinking that I should have signed up to a local doctor. Every time this happens, the possibility gets seriously considered and then not acted upon, until the next time I have some unspecified malfunction and realise I still don't have a local GP.

On this occasion, a mole on my neck is suddenly very hard and sore, and probably not the sort of thing I should be ignoring. In all likelihood I caught it on something and its just damaged, but I've been repeatedly warned that there's the outside possibility of melanoma when things go wrong with moles, and now this one has protruded a little further than comfortable I should get it seen.

This will involve me phoning by old GP and desperately trying to remember my old postcode from 5 years ago when asked for my address. I just hope they don't have a ruthlessly efficient admin system that long ago clocked the "not known as this address" returns to sender and deleted me from the database.

The mole is on the back of my neck, so I've been reduced to taking pictures of it. It looks angry and sore, like a mole that's just lost at Monopoly using real money and been informed that the guy being the Banker was cheating and has run off with its life savings. However, it being on the back of my neck, I haven't looked at it very often, so for all I know it always looks pissed off. It can't be much fun being stuck on my neck. Even a bent game of Monopoly would be a happy diversion.

UPDATE

It all ended up making a weird kind of sense. I never made it to the GPs, handily, but the mole saga didn't just go away. Well, actually that's exactly what happened.

It turns out (I was going to write "transpires," but then I remembered this is supposed to be a fun blog, not a policy paper) that the reason the mole was so upset was that I'd slathered freeze gel on it in an attempt to soothe a stiff neck. The mole, clearly preferring tropical climates, had gone into a massive sulk and started playing up. Eventually I got fed up of its angry surface rubbing against my t-shirt and stuck a plaster over it. And that, dear reader, is the last I ever saw of Maurice the Mole.

By the time I removed the plaster a couple of days later that what had previously protruded was now nothing more than a brown circle on my skin, like one of the squashed dogs in A Fish Call Wanda. A few days beyond that, he'd gone, with only the slightest speck of brown to show he had ever existed. Admittedly I was in Geneva at the time, so I can't really blame him for running off.

Now, I have no idea of the science behind a disappearing mole. I'd been told - many years ago by my Mum, I think - that moles could be "frozen off," but had no idea of what that actually entailed. I always imagined something being ladled out of a pot that smoked like dry ice before being carefully applied. However, I can now state - anecdotally - that smearing a blue gel that smells of eucalyptus will have the same effect.

I'm not recommending it though. There's something so disconcerting about a part of your body squishing flat and disappearing, even if it's a mole. I shall be careful with my remaining subterranean mammals, just in case one day I need them to dig me out of prison. Or Geneva.





 

Article

I thought I’d revisit my old random word generator to see what it offered me: I got ‘article’, which doesn’t sound like the spark of life for a surreal rampage through my memories, but does seem fairy appropriate for a return to regular blogging.

I say regular – if this remains the most up-to-date post come July 3^rd feel free to slap me.

Even ‘article’ was a bit of a cheat; the first word offered was “brightness” which for all its light and fluffy connotations seemed even more vague and unhelpful, so I skipped over it, thereby trashing all the rules that I originally set up for Trampling (but since I broke them fairly solidly by not writing every day I probably shouldn’t worry too much).

Of course when I started The Trampling of Small Pigs there wasn’t much opportunity for writing in my life. The most exciting things I got to write were updates to government departments on how their money had been spent, which afforded fewer opportunities for yellow hippos and talking oysters than I would like. Now I get to write articles about human rights abuse in central America – strangely I’m still short on the talking oysters, but nevertheless it’s a marked improvement. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t been back for a while?

But as with everything, as soon as you start doing it for work it becomes hard work. If I was paid to drink Irn Bru I’d resent it by day three and start dreaming of Tizer. Frankly I’m perplexed by the right-wing tabloids: if thousands of “loafers” are indeed being paid by the state to not work, there ought to be an epidemic of volunteering as not working starts to feel like far too much hard work for all these apparently work-shy people.

But that might just be me.

Of course, to go off piste for a moment, the government would then sanction them for volunteering because if you’re helping raise money to stop old people from being made into kites, or whatever, you’re clearly not looking for jobs that don’t exist, and where would we be then?

So here I am, blogging ‘for fun’ and hoping that it actually is.

This article is a gentle reintroduction for me. Hopefully the benefits will become plain if I keep up some sort of momentum (keeping the Jeremy Corbyn of my motivation in charge of the hapless political party of my creativity). I don’t imagine this post itself will attract rave reviews, but since I don’t have an audience, at least it can’t put anyone off. See you “all” soon.

Noisily

[Due to general incompetence, I'm publishing this two years late. That's right. Two years. Actually, two and bit. Sorry about that.]

The world does not fit nicely into our plans. Things that seem a good idea at the time are often revealed as wildly optimistic hopes. In hoping for a lie in on my holiday, I have been made to feel that I was counting on a golden swan to deliver my shopping or firmly believing that one of my legs is actually getting younger while the rest of me ages.

Though I'm pretty sure that one of my legs *is* ageing faster than the other one.

I'm in Edinburgh performing in a play called The War of the Waleses, in which I play Prime Ministers John Major and Tony Blair. It's enormous fun to act in (and hopefully to watch), but it does have the slight draw back of going up at 10:05pm every night. We finish at 11:30ish, and we're at least 30 mins walk from our digs in leafy surburbia, so the earliest I could get to bed would be midnight, and that's ignoring the residual adrenaline rush of performing in front of more than 6 people and the siren voices of whisky bars. In addition to that, go to bed at 12 and my body will assume that 10:50 is the top of the gentle slope to unconsciousness, just when I need to be bouncing on as Blair and dishing out the 1996 conference speech.

So, the simple solution is just to play fast and loose with the old body clock and shift everything onto my own personal time zone.   Jet laggedly zigzagging my hours into a new format should be simple - we all do it at least twice a year. I'll put my own clocks back a couple of hours. What could be more simple?

Me, it seems.  If it wasn't awkward enough sharing a double bed with Alistair Campbell, who seems to have shifted *his* personal time zone enough to have him hanging around in the Caribbean, the good burghers of Edin have decided that the paving slabs on our said leafy crescent need replacing. For some reason, paving slabs need urgent attention at about 8:30 each morning, though you have to be nice to those precious grey squares, and you mustn't tire them out by replacing them after 2pm in the afternoon.

So, thanks to my zone shift, I now have workman digging up the road outside my room from 6:30 till noon. And then they fuck off home.

The most delightful aspect of this is that according to one of my cast mates, at least half the workmen are actually performing community service.  Probably for anti-social behaviour.

Bastards.

Reason & Sanity

Cheating, me? It's just that my random word generator, Watch Out for Snakes, is back! And oddly, the last word before it died was Reason, and the first it's provided now it's back is Sanity. They seem all bedfellowy together, so I thought I'd do both.

I don't have very much reason to doubt my sanity. I might have a blog called The Trampling of Small Pigs, and my girlfriend would point out that I talk to our foster cat by mewing so much that I sometimes meow at other people by 'mistake', but other than that I'm boringly shorn of the signs of madness. Or even the CDs of Madness. Frankly I'm beginning to worry that middle age is making me sane. I haven't had the urge to write a novel about a giant, orange, shape-changing peanut that fights crime for years.

I realise that, rather facetiously, I'm confusing "reason & sanity" with "having an active imagination", though the link between the two has long been a source of conjecture. Or, y'know, something that people go on about. I think it's using phrases like "a source of conjecture" that is probably eating away at my playful imagination like acid. Or worms. Formal phraseology is like some like of parasite that takes over your brain and makes you spout more formal phraseology, like that fungus that rides ants to the top of grass stems and makes them explode all over their ant friends to spread its fungal evil. Just like that.

If I were to make that analogy in a meeting about learning materials or corporate social responsibility, perhaps I'd get that satisfying look of fear from some stiff looking individual with sad eyes and a bluetooth keyboard; instead I'd probably just mutter about 'developing appropriate linguistic cues to establish societal norms' and look stiff and sad-eyed while tapping at my wireless keyboard.

But it's lovely to have the snakes back. Maybe they can eat the worms.

Bauble

With my favourite random word generator looking like it's been eaten by the Worm of the World's End, I'm left waiting for my Dictionary app to spit a random word at me. Today it spat a bauble at me, which could have been dangerous if it had been one of those delicate glass Christmas decorations. In a world become very conscious of health & safety (rightly, for the most part) it does seem out of keeping that we celebrate a great festival to be enjoyed by children by surrounding them with fragile glass and putting electric lights on damp pine trees.

I have a box full of the most delightful, timorously fragile Christmas baubles. Alas they've remained wrapped in cotton wool (or possible bubble wrap) since they were bought, because they're far too fragile to actually do anything with. Instead my Christmas decorations of choice are £4 fairy lights from Chapel Market and a load of tinsel. Interestingly (to me) although I never take the baubles out of the box, I never put the tinsel and fairy lights away, and they've been decorating my north London garret for months now.

I had tinsel wrapped round Easter eggs, tinsel glinting in the midsummer sun, soon I'll have fairy lights shining through the eyes of pumpkins. There is something eternal about tinsel, not least because it's made of plastic and probably takes about 50 billion years to biodegrade. I look forward to being reincarnated as a sentient crustacean in the year 34,005,455,343 and digging up the preserved remains of the Selfridges Santa's Grotto from 2073, the year human civilization was finally destroyed by an invasion of strange pink blobs descended from David Cameron's face.

And all the while, tucked away somewhere in a cave at the centre of the Earth, will be a small, never opened, shoebox full of shell-like baubles, marked 'fragile' in long dead marker pen.  

Snip

I had an ex-girlfriend - my first one, in fact - who refered to me by an inexplicable (to me) nickname. The relationship was short lived, so short lived in fact that I never got a straight answer to why she decided to call me "Cheese Snip*". And of course never will.

Being named after some sort of proto-Mini Cheddar has probably not scarred me for life, but I do seem to have attracted an enormous number of nicknames over the years. Not generally from girlfriends, I hasten to add - if they always had something mysterious and slightly unflattering to call me I'd probably worry. 

So I've been The Professor, Strider, Bob-a-long, Triffid, The Master Plaster, Potto, The Hustler, Marti, Rubbish, Naked Steve and, of course, Speedy. I'm fairly certain there are lots of others, but being of advancing years bits of my past are being erased as my former selves are taken out of time, so several of my identities are lost to me forever. Also, I'm unlikely ever to get called Marti ever again. Thankfully. And as for Naked Steve, my days of appearing on stage in nowt but a breech-clout are hopefully gone forever, like my ponytail.

* whatever it was, I assure you it had nothing to do with the entry on Urban Dictionary. Eww.

Frenzied

I've been awake for 6 hours today. It's 10:15am

This, in short, is a prelude to a less than happy posting, wherein I try to make myself feel better about the shitness of the world by phrasing it in imperishable text and spreading my misery around on the web. And speaking of web...

I awoke (presumably from some sort of dream, but subsequent events rather scattered my recollections) in the darkness of night. I say darkness: the glow of the half a centimetre-across light on my wireless router, so dim in the minutes after the lamps are turned off, by 4am glows like the sickly green ghost-light of Minas Morgul, chucking ghoulish shadows around the room like dirty socks (some of them may be the ghoulish shadows of actual dirty socks). My head was buzzing, but not with any particularly issues, so 45 minutes later I was a little puzzled not to have dropped off back to sleep. I gave up trying to curl into a pre-sleep foetal position and stretched out on my back, easing tension in my back and shoulders.

Perhaps one of the reasons I can never sleep when I'm on my back is the simple fact of being able to see the ceiling. The ceiling is a terrifying canvass for an over-active imagination, even in a garret where the canvass metaphor is stretched out of shape by the angle of the roof, bringing parts of the ceiling within inches of a sleeping head. Tiny imperfections in the wallpaper (ceiling paper?) create a pebble-dash of tiny shadows, any one of which could turn out to be some tiny lurking terror, but - normally - don't.

This morning I found myself gazing at a piece of ceiling a foot above my face and spotting one of these nefarious dark spots. I squinted, expecting it to turn out to be some errant flake of paper or mysterious bit of fluff.

Instead, I was more than a little dispirited - it being 5am and myself in a state of nigh-hallucinatory sleep-deprivation - to discover a large spider sat inches from me, illuminated in the sickly green router glow, in a prime position to flop lazily onto my head.

Yes, dear reader, I am ashamed to say that I shrieked like a child and leapt out of bed. I can deal with my mild arachnophobia at 2pm on a sunny afternoon, when I will happily catch the spider in a cup and usher it outside. At 5am in the morning, thoroughly exhausted, my only post-screaming action was to grab a towel and flick the thing as far away from the bed as possible. I may well have overdone it, as I heard, distinctly, a little cracking sound as it bounced off the far wall. Of course, with a spider that size the sound was just as likely to be the plaster giving way as it was to be a fatal blow to the arthropod.

I feel slightly guilty about this. I'm a vegetarian. I'm kind to wasps. Why should I be so mean to a spider? But I console myself with this rationalisation: It was above my face! If Mahatma Gandhi was sitting there looking down at me from 8 inches away at 5am, I'd flick him off the wall with a towel.

My frenzied attack over, there was no hope of getting back to sleep, even if I'd dared turn the light out. Somewhere, in the garrety gloom, a spider with four legs in plaster is plotting a dastardly revenge.