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Maisie Russell’s Wart

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Dr Buck Melanoma seemed to think my moles were benign on my visit on Tuesday.  Made an appointment for March for a second look.  Although I did get a letter today saying I had an appointment at the minor surgery clinic on 2nd Feb with lots of guff about post-removal aftercare. So am I having them removed or not?  Have rung them today to get them to check what’s happening.

I could have lived in that surgery in Bingley though.  I arrived (after getting lost as per) rather early.  I was invited, by a most hospitable receptionist, to partake of the café upstairs while I waited.

I bloody did!




What no germ filled, fly blown, shit magazine waiting room? No crabby, dragon-breathed Nazi receptionist demanding loudly to know your every ailment?


Instead – sunshiny (even in January), book-stocked café run by super friendly lady who even put love-hearts in chocolate on the cappuccino.  I enjoyed a toasted teacake, read my book and people-watched as the cafe manager trained the oldest Barista in town.  “Cappuccino is basically just froth”.  “Latte is basically just milk and Americano is a black coffee.”  “Job’s a good ‘un”.


I watched, amused, as an elderly man chatted up an elderly lady with his tales of learning to play the cornet in the local church brass band –  she seemed most receptive to his advances.  Good for them.

Then a lovely friendly greeting when I went back into the surgery – “Welcome back.  How was your coffee?” etc.  I watched as they booked a taxi for an elderly patient and then walked her outside to ensure she got off alright.  My GP surgery could learn a thing or two.



Baby, I’m your man!

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I took a photo of myself today on my new witchcraft mobile to use as a profile pic for Instagram.


Trust me, I am not fishing for platitudes, but holy moley I looked like bloody shit no matter what angle I took the fucker from!   Crow’s Feet?   It was like Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ out there round the old eye regions (and I had make-up on). 

I thought I looked pretty decent circa 2006 – I seemed to come into my own and embrace my mid to late 30’s.  Now the façade has started to crumble and the plasterboard & MDF is beginning to show through.  I might try some of that Nanoblur cream (or maybe just a pair of 10 denier tights over the lens of my camera)

not the eyes, not the eyes!

Have I always looked like a man & just not been able to admit the truth to myself? 

I’ve sadly lacked in the lovin’ department over the years, not exactly fighting the fellas off with a stick, & most of the decent offers I did get, I knocked back because I’m an asshole (who had, & still has, body inferiority issues).   

My youngest even said last week while I was mooching for clothes in Chester and asked their opinion on a frock.  “Mum, sorry but dresses and you… well they just don’t match”

Think my sister got the looks and I just got the mannish chin and the moles from the paternal side of the Fam.


I like to think that perhaps I appear better in the flesh, as it were, and just don’t take a pretty picture.   Bman knows the truth.  He’s been describing me to his work colleagues as ‘Benny Hill in a wig’ for years.  To be fair, he’s still around, which speaks volumes, although I’m not sure of what?

Vogue will be calling any time soon (for their drag edition)

I’ve used a picture of one of the childerbeast’s eyes instead & thrown a cloth over the bathroom mirror…