Sime says

I'm paying the price for being slack with suncream. Crusty vesuvius-like kraters have formed on my forehead. Pustules on my nose and cheeks bubble up and beg to be picked. It's beyond painful, tight and unbelievably itchy. Translucent shards of peeling skin quiver in a breeze and heighten the level of discomfort. The carefree days of this cap-wearing kid are over.   If my head was a bar of chocolate I would be a violent crumble. There's nothing delicious about the thought, for my skin has been turned inside out by Efudix – a cream used to fight skin cancers. Call me ugly, liken my expression to that of a dropped pie or tag my face as one that only a mother can love but spare me the suffering that this topical terror inflicts. I call it "Efu" and broadcast the name in the direction of any onlooker transfixed by my appearance.  The Elephant Man  frequently broke down in public. He was 'not an animal'  but by crikey his disfigurement made people wonder. Rece...

The ice-cream headache that hits me is more of a Magnum than a soft serve. After 90 seconds or so the shaft of pain at the base of my brain drifts away, as do I.  It's sink or swim at this point as mind battles body in a persuasive attempt to convince me that ocean swimming in winter is a bright idea.    Life in a bubble is brilliant for I am immersed in thousands of them. Effervescent handfuls of salty spume dart past my goggles with every stroke of freestyle. I feel fast and buoyant, channel thoughts of Thorpedo and kick on. But it doesn't last. Ears give in to a relentless tide, my breathing begins to labour and my nose is subjected to an epic irrigated event. Feeling more like a stone fish than porpoise I persevere for there is too much stimulation coursing through my veins. Noradrenaline and cortisol fuel a fight or flight response. Stop now and I'll sink. Each gulp of air is met by a blinding blast of morning sunshine which cuts through my smeared goggles. The sky...

Sledgehammers smash walls and send my stomach through the floor. Bricks bleed and permeate the air with diaphanous dust that smothers nasal hair. Windows shudder. Floorboards groan. My house is hurting and I feel the trauma.  Three months into a renovation and I’m yet to feel the love for this cavernous money pit.    The heavens have opened, saturating the exposed site and washing piles of sawdust and grit down the driveway. Amputated architraves scream in silence and dangling cables hold naked bulbs, their filaments long extinguished.    It’s agonising to be ‘on site’, surrounded by skirting boards unsheathed, wall plaster ripped asunder and metal roofing peeled back. Hall carpet stripped off like a band aid reveals virgin timber covered in knots. Its rawness is real.   I medicate by trying to envisage a new environment. Sprouting north from the 1900-built carapace will be a new heart of the home: an open kitchen with a lifted section of roof and swathes o...