Winter kitten

Loyal readers will recall my forehead flare-up after an unfortunate mismatch between the cold weather and an itchy hat. You may have assumed, as I did, that that particular chapter in my fascinating dermatological history had closed. However, as I was washing my hands in the ladies at work today, I looked up at the mirror and noticed, under the kind of harsh lighting that illuminates most public conveniences, that flakes of skin were liberating themselves from my forehead, and dropping like silent snowflakes on to my dress. A black dress, of course – all the better to show off the unsightly facial-dandruff blizzard. I was, at this point, relieved I was working on a downmarket celebrity rag this week, and not, say, Elle, where I might have had to hide my hideous physiognomy in the shadows like a Victorian freak as the dewy-skinned, pashmina-wrapped princesses of the style press swished past me.

I am counting my blessings. Imagine if I had to work outside every day. I would literally have no skin left on my face. It is all for the best that I am a soft-skinned, short-sighted, latter-day Edgar Linton who hunches over a computer all day cosseted by the warmth of central heating. My constitution would permit nothing more.