I am too old for spots. Problem is that no-one told the spots. Especially not the carbuncular one that arrived on my cheekbone three days before the biggest party of the year. The one that Michael Fassbender was going to be at. It was medieval (the spot, not the party), like something from before the time of antibiotics, when there were still serfs and mead and England was just mud. The word bubonic springs to mind.
When I was fourteen I would have used up an entire tube of that £1.99 greasy cover-up stuff that was never the right shade. I would dust it thickly with powder, aware at all times of the pulsing eco-system that had colonised half my face. It didn’t really matter back then, everyone had shit skin. But this is no longer an option when you are 41 and you have realised that COVER UP DOESN’T ACTUALLY WORK. It is a lie, like democracy. So instead I went to a really expensive dermatologist who made me hold a rubber ball while she took a scalpel to my face and squeezed. Hard. ‘If there is pus about, get it out!’ she trilled. I quite envied her work. Then it was a small injection of something steroid-y, some antibiotic cream, a little plaster, and I was done. 15 minutes and £75 later (there’s a £350 registration fee too).
The party was two nights later. I didn’t have a spot any more and Michael is a really great dancer, really nice smile, looks good in jeans…etc.
(Our Midult saw a dermatologist at The Cranley Clinic, 3 Harcourt House, 19A Cavendish Square, London W1G 0PN. Tel: +44 (0) 207 499 3223, www.drnicklowe.com)