nightmares

I'm going to have nightmares. And I blame Richard E Grant entirely with that film of his How to get a head (or is it ahead?) in advertising.
Its that giant alter-ego-SPOT thing that grows out of his neck and rears its ugly face in critical moments of his day.
I am going around the house covering all the mirrors with tea-towels so that there is no risk of them cracking each time I pass, with my puss-tulating (actually not sure that's a word but it sounds quite dramatic so I shall use it anyway) chin proudly projecting like bloody Ben Nevis or worse, Kilimanjaro. I don't want to, like, go mad with the exaggerations and say Everest, because clearly that's an untruth. No one could carry a spot that big. (Although there was a guy at school who maybe had an Everest Foothill disorder on his face at various times in his late teens...) (Depressingly he's probably never had a spot since, and now, here I am, 34 going on 15 in the spot department, 34 going on 45 in the wrinkles department, 34 going on 86 in the brains department, I could go on...)
The hot bath option clearly didn't work last week. I'll give Green Tea two more days. And then its back to Phil the painter for his scraper & polyfiller.