Strange day (first in a never-ending series)

There was a space of between five to ten minutes early this after­noon — as I stood with half my body tightly wrapped in cling film and stuck down with pre­cisely scissored lengths of gaf­fer tape, hav­ing a part of my ana­tomy encased in a quick-setting mould made from wet elastic band­ages, all the while feel­ing like noth­ing quite so much as a trussed-up chicken in the pro­cess — when I couldn’t help but silently pon­der the strange dir­ec­tions life some­times sends us in, and the odd situ­ations we sud­denly find ourselves inhab­it­ing as a result.

And I thought about all this whilst stand­ing on one leg, naturally.

Of course, then I got to think­ing that in cer­tain back streets of Soho, senior mem­bers of Par­lia­ment would have to pay extor­tion­ate sums of money for the kind of treat­ment I was exper­i­en­cing at that moment, though it would most prob­ably be meted out by a leather-clad Ger­man dom­in­atrix called Helga rather than a highly camp middle-aged man called Den­nis, who spor­ted a cheeky grin part hid­den behind an almost com­ic­ally alarm­ing beard.

But then beg­gars can’t be choosers, and I was get­ting this for free on the NHS. National Insur­ance con­tri­bu­tions are a mar­vel­lous thing, and don’t let any­one tell you otherwise.

Wish I’d kept some of that cling film, though.