His hair is carefully full of gel. Personally I think gel in men’s hair is a little 1980s and is up there with pink polo shirts and white ‘slacks’ but hey it’s his hair, what there is left of it.
His shirt is a smart ‘men’s boutique’ one. It’s black with thin white stripes. There’s something a little too carefully done about it as if he’s an artist misplaced in our rural North Hampshire town. We don’t get artists here. Not true trainspotting, angst ridden artists, just the painting water colour chocolate box paintings artists. But it’s an ok shirt. At least he’s tried. He actually has a shirt on, so that’s points.
His trousers are a slim fit, even though they’re not tailored as such. I’m pretty sure he has a six pack under that shirt as evidence of his worship workout at the gym of pub. I can see the definition of the six pack, just. At least I can clearly make out the letters ‘Carling’.
In his ear he has two carefully placed earrings. Not gangster-bling, no screaming crystals pretending to be diamonds or confused pirate hoops. Nope, carefully hand-made rings with a small ball on them. Did he make them in between serving up his vegetarian dinner of smoked mushrooms and pumpkin penne lasagna and brewing his own cider? Quite possibly.
He has taken so much time with his appearance I am agog at what I spy just at bottom of his carefully cut hair. On his neck it threatens to blow. Like Krakatoa.
Quite simply, it is the largest zit I’ve ever seen on a person aged above 15 years of age!
He must know it’s there. He must. You can’t tell me that he can’t feel it? And of course it is almost as large as the state of Lichenstein.
Why hasn’t he picked it?
I would. I’d prefer to squeeze that blighter and leave the shell as evidence. You see then the evidence can be presumed to be anything.
The work of an unskilled plastic surgeon?
A bite from an exotic mosquito carrying a devasting (but ultimately curable) disease that you received on the outer island of Vanua Levu whilst visiting with the natives?
Would you pick it? Your own zit, not his. There’s no way I was going to lean forward and squeeze it for him. That would just be wrong. But I did mentally apply pressure. I stared at that bugger and thought hard of volcanoes, and C4 and opening a juice on a plane, dressed in work clothes.
The damn thing didn’t shift. It was green and crusty on the top, surrounded by a corona of rings of milky cream and pink. It was HUGE.
As I wondered why, why why he didn’t pick it, his large paw raised. Everything went slow motion. I could see the hand rising, I could see the trajectory of those sausage fingers and the casual but determined look on his face, the rest of the shoppers stopped and watched. The world stopped. The butterfly was about to be squashed and rainforests in Peru were about to topple…small children would stare at the sky and scream ‘what is that Mummy? What is it?’ ‘Look away child, don’t look at the evil’
His hand reached the vicinity of the bear’s neck. It was littered with sparse dark hairs like overgrown whiskers. Involuntarily I winced, I closed one eye and tried to look away, when……
‘Can I help you?’
I shuffled forward to the counter, turning around to see the guy as he left stage left. I couldn’t see whether it was still there.
‘Sorry is that it?’
Straining to see. But he was gone. And I will never know.
Did he pick it?
What do you think of, whilst stuck in a queue?
Image: Flickr Creative Common