Dammit! I forgot to mention my eye problems. From time to time my eyes erupt and they look and feel as if a humongous mutant wasp bearing the talons of an eagle has become entangled in my eyelashes and is repeatedly attacking my cornea as a means of escape.
And that's what's been kicking off for the past couple of weeks preventing me from physically confronting the luminescence of my Mac. Which is kind of okay because this has been acting as a very effective counter-irritant to my left foot, but then I need a counter-irritant to counteract the counter-irritant - if you get my meaning.
As it was my birthday recently (Pretty average thanks. I spent the evening in rehearsal) I travelled to the Trafford Centre primarily to distract myself from the physical pain and to redeem the value of a Boots Gift Card received as a present. I'm not much for venturing out in public. To me there's nothing worse than the tide of humanity lapping at my elegantly shod feet as I attempt to go about my daily business. As a shy egomaniac, I only get on with crowds when they're applauding me or screaming my name, otherwise they're a scary monster which keeps me confined to my quarters. But a heady mix of agony and the thought of all the Original Astral All Over Moisturiser I'd be able to purchase drove me to the Catacombs of Conspicuous Consumption.
The first thing that struck me was the sea of females sporting jeggings and Ugg (tm) boots. And, most peculiarly, there were middle-aged women dragging around their daughters and their daughters' daughters who were dressed exactly the same. Three generations of sartorial vapidity. We've regressed so far as a species, we're all dressing alike and in the home Fathers jostle their Sons for precious X-Box time as they attempt to live a perpetual adolescence. Back in the day you knew you were grown up because they gave you a suit on the NHS at the age of 16. Fact!
These days the last, exclusive, ring-fenced province of the child in fashion is the baby grow, or romper suit if you prefer, and I saw Snoop Dogg wearing one of those in a video once. So give it a couple of years and everyone will be hitting the streets in designer nappies:
"Gimme your Pampers or I'll stab you up, innit?"
"They're Huggies."
"Huggies, Pampers, Asda's own, wha'ever, yeah? Don't backchat me, Bigfoot or I'll bus' you up."
A lot more fun is to be had in The Concourse, a charmingly dilapidated shopping centre over in Skelmersdale - or Skem as the locals prefer and, get this, they refer to their Superstore as The Asda - where I've been working lately. Perhaps I’m just ultra-sensitive, but I found the spectacle of a group of 14 year olds at half-term smoking, drinking super strength Kestrel and luxuriating in their world-class surliness a tad unsettling at first. Now, this represents part of its allure. That, the pie shops and the lovely fella in the newsagents who kindly enquires if I want a "Chewy?" whenever I walk past his establishment. You don't get that at the Trafford Centre.
My foot related health considerations run a distant second to the brouhaha surrounding David Beckham at present. It's funny how our lives have followed such a similar path, although I doubt he's thinking, "I haven't heard from this consultant for a while, think I'll go to the Trafford Centre and gawp at the human detritus to see if that makes me feel better."
He inhabits a different world, one in which I imagine Victoria has compliant vulva delivered to their house like pizza in a wifely effort to keep him amused.
"Vic, this one's all dry and dessicated!"
"Easy hun, there's a juicy Hawaiian coming in a minute."
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