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.