Itchy scratchy aaaaargh!, Pustules, with scabby hats, dots and pinpricks of sunspot activity all over me–aaargh. Lying steady trying not to rupture, get me a tongue suppressor something to bite down hard on.  Worse than a night of pea soup humidity, fingers and pointing bones of witchcraft all over me. Blankets are shredded and thrown to the ground, just a sheet to cover my embarrassment.

Mum comes and goes with bowls of hot chicken soup – as if that will solve things, trips to the doctor for antibiotics, itching in the waiting room chair looking at the collection of yesteryear magazines, and feeling the pregnant atmosphere of anticipation waiting to give birth. The doctor, standard white coat, the paddle in the tongue- hums and has. The chemist , where everything is in gleaming fluro white and the girls serving behind the counter look like they’re out for a date at a hookers ball, red glossy lipstick and 70’s hair. 

Back home to the torture rack, the couch this time, nothing on daytime television, nothing to get my mind off the itching, the needles that are being threaded through my skin by the ongoing advance of the disease – the prognosis is fine, but with cloudy periods before the clear skies appear. More chicken soup needed. It’s thick and creamy a muted yellow/grey colour almost. That’s how it seems  tiny lumps of vegetable float about with shreds of chicken that taste of nothing and are turned into rubberised croutons. Oh god! can’t I just pick away at one of them? Just one? No, of course one leads to another and another and then it’s all over and there will be scars for a life time – somehow that phrase runs through my head – whether it’s something to scare me enough to not pick away is another matter- Scars for a life time’