It's Friday, it must be a Florentine

I'm celebrating the end of a draining week with a Florentine from Konditor & Cook. This was a compulsory purchase in accordance with one of my life rules, which states that whenever you are buying a present for someone, you should always buy one for yourself at the same time. I was in K&C asking after wheat-free indulgences for Miss L's birthday, and my attention was drawn to the aforepictured Florentine, a delicacy that my friend Ms H always praises as being 1oo% good stuff, with no boring filler – which is to say flour and eggs. I may be paraphrasing.

You can see me pointing to my self-gift in the picture, because my left index finger is in a constant state of pointing. I am permanently accusatory; in an ongoing state of Kitchener; Kitchenered. I am also, quite obviously, wearing a white fabric condom, but I have attempted to remain impassive about this ever since it was first being rolled down over my rigid, upturned digit by a male nurse and I realised any smirking on my part might constitute sexual harassment.

I am pretty much over the novelty of being a full-time bandage-wearer. I enjoyed the tragic glamour initially. I probably milked the act of fumbling to retrieve coins from my purse in shops. It has made me some new friends, such as CASHIER NUMBER 12 PLEASE! in Marks & Spencer on Southwark Street, who is very concerned for my welfare and the amount of pain I'm in, which is not much at all and only sometimes. I don't think I'm alone when I say that as a young child, I secretly wanted to break a limb so I could have it in plaster. Not enough to be seduced into launching myself off the highest point of the climbing frame towards a patch of unsympathetic concrete, but enough to pine for a painless minor fracture. Still, now I have experienced the metaphorical equivalent of a class of eight-year-olds crowding around me with their uncapped felt tips, I can say that I'll be glad to get back to PE lessons now.