After almost a week where my constitution experienced eddying waves of malady, I’m now testing negative for COVID-19. Despite this, though, I remain as weak as a cup of tea whose bag was stolen by a passing seagull after only a one second union with boiling water.

Footnote – Incidentally, the pinched bag of which I refer is (of course) a tea bag. I’m not for one moment suggesting the cup actually owned a purse; an accessory the ocean avian saw as too tempting not to pilfer.

Anyhow, my energy levels post-COVID are so low I may ditch today’s literary project, returning to bed for a (sanguinely) re-invigorating snooze. Slumber which’ll hopefully afford me renewed vitality for the weekend. Days where, amongst my itinerary, I’ve plans to visit a T20 Blast cricket game, in addition undertake voluntary marshalling work for the Leeds 10k run.

With liberty from chez Strachan hampered by testing positive for the pathogen, yours truly’s week has been largely a damp squib. The highlight of my days post return from holiday, on Monday, being the ceremonial dropping off of a skin tag I’d cultivated under my left arm for around three decades.

Ten days after my buddy, and legal advisor, Sarah had lassoed the dermatological critter, negating blood flaw to the tag and commencing the process of it’s demise, Wednesday morning saw the moribund mole drop on the bathroom floor mid-pee….. Incidentally, that’s me mid-pee, not the skin tag.

It’s final few days seeing the lesion initially expanding to such a size it looked as though a Space Hopper had begun burgeoning from my hirsute armpit. A stage of the tags demise where, for a day or two, if GJ Strachan turned on his left side in bed the meeting of ‘Space Hopper’ and mattress sprung him back to the previous position.

A scale model of my skintag

A few days before it final succumbed to Sarah’s thread efficacy, the skin tag turned black and the days old swelling started diminishing. It malingering on until the fateful day it gave up the ghost and after one score and ten years fell unspectacularly from my torso’s Portside.

The romantic in me feels perhaps, after our thirty year union, I should’ve given my unwanted chest tenant a more reverential send off. Affording the lesion a tea party perhaps; along with maybe sending it a ‘Sorry you’re going’ card – Gestures displaying a great deal more class than merely terminating the tag’s existence, prior to flushing it down the loo upon detachment.

However, I refuse to become overly sentimental. After all, in the three decades of it’s tenancy on my body, the lesion lived rent free, was gifted blood flow and its very existence by yours truly. Ordinarily, I don’t perform good deeds on the premise of receiving reciprocal kindness; that being said, I got little back from old Taggy in recompense for my 30 years as his (or her) host.

Akin to when I left my estranged wife after thirty years of marriage, it’s hard not to feel GJ Strachan got little parity when it came to what the other parties brought to the union table.

Another reason I’ll hold no pangs of guilt are the skin tag’s final week was a sun drenched holiday in Majorca….. You bloody dermatological lesions…. You don’t know you’re bloody born!!!

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