I was glad I had swapped my light grey, suavely cut “Francis” suit for a more sombre, square shouldered “Tony”, as dark attire was definitely the order of the day. Everyone looked older. I saw a particularly wizened specimen with silver hair in a dark trench coat in the large mirror of the reception room, before realising it was me.
It was a jolly-ish occasion, nevertheless, seeing everyone again and reminiscing.
It looks a bit complex to me, what with having to remember what all those letters do. Maybe it would be more suitable for a blog with many daily updates? However, it might encourage users overseas to up their ante?
For me, any new format that makes posting photos and videos more easily would win hands down.
For peace of mind, I recommend going to the Tokyo branch of Boots, where you can utilise, for a coin of the realm, their patented BMI machine. This device weighs you, measures you, and, with you gripping its high tech, stainless steel ‘antlers’, analyses how speedily electric currents pass through your body – specifically, your fatty tissues – and delivers its verdict in the form of a small docket.
Mine stated my approximately 13.5 stone frame was composed of 40% fat. That’s more than five stone of blubber. Checking what this meant online, I deduced I was lucky to be alive, being obese to the point of immobility.
Do you remember that sketch from Not the Nine o’Clock news?
The only difference was their bellies were fake.
A traveller should never venture far without his personal bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide and his trusty Alum stone. I took neither, to a place of insanely high heat and humidity, and suffered the indignity of smelling like a stale baby’s nappy from constant, leaking perspiration, and then having to suffer the ritual outbreak of tingling pustules on my lower lip that turned over a number of days into a crusty, pizzalike protrusion that bled every time I opened my mouth.
I thought I had the answer to the cold sores, though. I had been reliably informed that repeated applications of one’s own urine to a burgeoning pustule would see it off in next to no time. I collected the yellow nectar in a plastic spoon and religiously applied finger dabs at regular intervals. At first, I was hopeful and confident, as it did seem to be halting the spread somewhat, but eventually I realised I was fighting a losing battle. Any urine I collected evaporated at such high speed in the heat, that often it was like applying sticky honey, which seemed more irritating than curative. However, much as it may have looked and felt like honey, it certainly didn’t smell or taste like it, which probably contributed to the ‘baby nappy’ odour I carried around with me, like a private miasma.
