I’ve been insulted by professionals.
When I was born the midwife took one look at me and slapped my Father.
When I put in my pre-approved papers for Mummy’s regiment, the Old 666th Knee & Crotch, the recruiting officer shot the regimental mascot goat and then shot himself.
And now, trying to update that gloopy great nonsense known as “Google+“, I’ve been insulted by machine.
‘Are you sure that people will recognise you in this photo? It doesn’t seem to have a face in it.‘
I know that my face looks as though it’s been lived on by an entire caravan of geriatric vegan camels but I do still have two eyes, a nose and a mouth, and they’re the only ones I’ve got – I’m rather inordinately fond of them.
I doubt that I shall ever pluck up the courage and confidence to go out in public again.
My life is over. I shall have to become an inebriate recluse. Sort of a Miss Havisham in trousers. Send word to cover the mirrors, close the shutters and put in a repeat order for Hendrick’s.