I have fleas.

While browsing an old copy of the Journal of Sexual Medicine I found an article on the latest research into therapeutic treatments for vaginismus, when a flea landed on the word 'surrogate'. I pinched it between finger and thumb and presuming it dead, flicked it away. By lunchtime I was standing in the bath showering cold water over my ankles.

My plan for the day was to drink coffee, catch up on administration, my reading, perhaps ease down with a quarter pipe. I had no intention of dealing with fleas today. However, come late afternoon my feet and ankles were bloody with vicious scratching and the fantasy of ringing everyone I know, friends, clients, family, Gareth, neighbours, everyone, and blurting out the truth of my horrible infestation was beginning to feel like a salvation required on every level.

No.

I picked up thursday's newspaper, smoked an entire pipe of O, and drifted to sleep vowing never to read the Guardian again, or to view the natural world as metaphor, and as I drifted these two resolutions became one.