Bewildered in Bermondsey

After showering and shaving this morning I placed two small pieces of toilet paper onto the resulting little nicks on my face. Then I ate a bowl of cereal before rushing out to catch my train to London Bridge. It was only as we sped through Bermondsey that I realised that the slivers of bloodied tissue paper were still glued to my chops. No wonder small children and their mothers had given me a wide berth in the street. I must have looked like Albert Steptoe shuffling down the road. On another occasion, in Melbourne, I had scratched my forehead and to staunch the bleeding I stuck a sizeable piece of tissue paper on the wound. It was only after I returned home from the travel agent, where I had conducted all of my London travel business with the, I now realise, quite traumatised young woman, that I notice that it was still gummed to my scalp. And I can't count the times recently I have been in the street and realised my fly is open. Or else there's the constant, worried, scrabbling at the crotch to double-check that it is indeed zipped shut, and this probably looks worse. Am I destined to be one of those old coots who shuffle down the street wearing one slipper and carrying a pillow?




















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