They say that everything happens for a reason.
I don't actually subscribe to that philosophy, not believing in predestination, or divine intervention, or gypsy curses or being patronised. But I do like to think that when shit happens you can at least try to learn something from it, or become stronger in some way. That kind of bollocks positive thinking appeals to me.
However, I am currently struggling to understand what possible reason, or mental stamina, or life's lesson, or any positive element whatsoever I could be gaining from the fact that I, RTB, appear to be turning into a reptile.
Reptile verihorribilus.
Admittedly, it is happening very slowly.
I do not have a tail. Let alone one that can break off in times of emergency (handy for bank robberies when eluding the police).
I do not turn bright red when stood next to a post box. Unless someone says something very rude to me (shush, Nick).
I lack the ability to run up walls and ceilings without falling on my arse. Not that I would actually mind developing that particular talent (although my days of wearing skirts would be numbered).
I have not taken to eating insects. I have nothing to add to this statement (nothing, I said).
But what I do have is a patch of skin on my arm which is currently sporting the kind of scaly encrustations last witnessed by cinema-goers with rubbish taste at a showing of Jurassic Park III.
And it is spreading.
Yes, I have been to my GP. Several times. Which has only resulted in me spending the equivalent of a small third world country's debt on numerous steroid creams. Which would probably have had exactly the same effect if I had decided, instead of slathering them on my arm in a manner reminiscent of a candlemaker layering wax onto a wick, to squirt them up my arse. *rude comments about arses and creams censored here*
And yes, I have tried the chemists. Who either refer me to the Vaseline section *no need for further censorship of arse-related comments, thank you very much* or back to my GP.
And yes, I do scratch the itch. Don't look at me like that, you don't know what it feels like. And I only do it occasionally. And... But... Oh, just leave me alone!
Which means that I am now forced to consider the hitherto unconsiderable.
Alternative therapies.
It's not that I don't believe in them. It's just that I have no idea how to sort the alternative wheat from the charlatan chaff - and I don't particularly want to have to re-mortgage my flat before I find out.
Nor do I want to visit some complementary health centre hoping to be De-Reptiled and come out instead with a yoga mat that has been hand-woven by Nepalese monks; Hopi candle singes on my ears; a CD containing 20 famous classical pieces performed by blue whales; the conviction that I was, in one of my previous lives, abducted by Martians, and a 500g packet of mung beans.
(What do you do with mung beans?)
All I want is for someone knowledgeable to tell me exactly where I can find The One with the Anti-Lizard Cure (was that a Friends episode?), before my blood runs cold, my pores seal up and my career prospects are limited to walking up and down the streets of Chorlton wearing a sandwich board advertising Iguana Bar.
