Herpes, by stealth*

Bet that got you interested, you filthy animals.

But no, I'm not sitting here tearing furiously my netherlands or anything, I'm talking about the facial variety.

I'm not happy. And who would, says you, be happy about having a stingy, crusty eyesore hanging off their lip. Stingy crusty eyesores are usually just hippies from Cavan and no threat to anyone's aesthetic but their own, but not in this case. (If you're wondering, what preceded there was a play on the word stingy. I'll move on now).

Anyway, time was when cold sores were decent and used to give you a bit of warning that they were on the way. You know, the unmistakable 'tingle' on your lip that announced the impending birth of the seeping, itchy callous that makes you a social pariah for about ten days. I'm sure there was a line in that song 'Rhythm of Life' about it.

Anyway, somewhere along the line, cold sores, known on Sundays as Herpes Simplex Virus Type 1 or 2 or something, lost all sense of etiquette and propriety. And just started appearing on my face without so much as a doff of their cap or a by or leave from anyone. No tingle. No itch. No warning. The fuckers. It's like a child entering another teacher's classroom without knocking. Heresy. Go back out and knock before entering I say.

I'm mostly pissed off about this because I had an outbreak last night at about 8.19pm on my way to get the train to meet Radge in town for pints, as arranged over comments on the previous post. 8.19pm is a bad time for cold sore arrival (visitors always arrive at inconvenient times, don't they? I don't actually know this for sure, but my Mammy always says it) because there's nowhere open to get cream for it and you start to worry that you're not going to get it treated in time and so will spend a week looking like a grotesque fat-lipped bag of associational-sexual infestation.

Thankfully, when I got to the pub I tumbled on the revolutionary idea of visiting the late night pharmacy on O'Connell Street and taxi'd my way there and back in about ten minutes flat. I got those Compeed patches and thankfully, all is well and they seem to be working.

Although when the patches get over moist, fall off and start floating in your pint of Guinness, it is a little disconcerting.

Anyway, I just felt compelled to share all this with you for some reason, I have to get back to work now. I must come back soon and tell you all about my wisdom tooth though, I'd say you can hardly wait.

I also remembered midway through last night's pints that I need to tell you all about the most hilarious lapdance in history (Liverpool, April, the stag), and later on, I was reminded to post about the ants in my office, and later still, some pure comedy gold dropped in my lap when I was serenaded all the way home by a taxi driver who was also an actor and singer-songwriter looking for someone to roadtest his latest ballad on.

I really should go for pints more often.

*I hope this reads ok, I haven't time to check over it. Radge?