Pride and sensibility

It is a truth universally acknowledged that new clothes plus exciting holiday plus digital camera must be in want of a spot. To be recorded for posterity. It happens every single time I go away. It's like a never-ending and fairly gruesome version of pin the tail on the donkey: spot the spot.

On the rare occasion that the pustule fairy doesn't pay me a visit on the eve of a holiday, it's a dead cert I'll get a mosquito bite. On the face. And then when I go through my holiday snaps to my - obviously enthralled - audience, I feel the need to tell them, "That's not a spot - it's a mosquito bite." Like somehow a spot is something to be ashamed of, but a mosquito bite just isn't your fault.

So yes, I'm on holiday, and yes, the pustule fairy paid me a visit. And I have a complaint about this. I'm 29 now and beginning to show some subtle signs of ageing. I have a few tiny wrinkles round my eyes, and two weeks ago I discovered my first grey hair. I would be OK with this - all natural. But spots too? Spots and wrinkles? Surely it's only fair to grow out of one before the other starts making your life miserable. Surely I was owed at least a couple of years of unbridled spot-free, wrinkle-free joy?

In the meantime I have a three-headed spot. Like the dog who guards the gates of Hell. Cerebus? Ceres? Cervix? Life is harder without Internet. I had to handwrite this Plog. I hope you're grateful.