I had to pull forward my six-monthly skin check this week because of a suspicious little spot that popped up on my noggin. Looks like another baby melanoma. The dermo took a biopsy for testing but I reckon I’ll be back under the blade next week.
I’m not much fussed. This is my fourth go around with these things, and I’ve lost count of the lesser skin cancers I’d had cut out – so many now that I can narrate the op as my doctor does it.
Like most men, I like to believe that I would survive the violent collapse of civilisation, leaving me free to wander the post-apocalyptic wasteland of well-stocked supermarkets. But I also know that the clock would be ticking on my end-of-the-world adventure because, eventually, one of these little blemishes would get me.