Please Don't Make Me Go Out In Public

“Deep cleanses the skin and draws out impurities”. “Perfect” I thought as I eagerly slapped the Warming Mineral Mask onto my face.

Three days later, I’m still struggling to cope with the influx of impurities that answered the call and left their previously happy home to journey to my highly visible epidermis.

I haven’t enjoyed zits this bountiful since my wedding day. The only difference is that I sobbed about it then asking Glam-Nan to ask God how he could have let this happen, now I’m just not leaving the house. Or at least that’s what I’d hoped. Gambogini is due round this evening and has told me we’re going out to mingle with three-dimensional people who don’t feature in their own sitcom. She’s suggested going for a pizza in honour of my complexion.

She was due round at 6pm and, allowing 1 hour to plaster my face, 1 hour for it to set, that gave me until 4pm. As I was housebound, I rather productively painted some furniture and granted permission to Accountant and youngest nephew to go and watch football whilst I prowled round the house with Chickie.

It’s not the first time I’ve been imprisoned by acne. It’s happened many times before. Just ask any of my old friends and family who were let down at the last minute because I happened to walk past a mirror situated within a mile radius of a 100 watt lightbulb. Sorry to you all by the way, I couldn’t help myself. During my school years, I attacked my face so badly, I had to cut myself a fringe to disguise my forehead as Glam-Nan didn’t think “very, very spotty” was a good enough excuse to stay at home, despite my pleading.

As I looked in the mirror that evening, still disbelieving that I could find myself in this predicament aged 30, I wondered whether ‘cakey’ could be a new trend for Summer 2007. Whilst one tube of concealer and a palette full of powder had gone someway to covering the redness, the lumpiness was still posing a problem. Short of a balaclava, there was little else that could be done.

Gambogini arrived 6ft tall in her heels, model skinny and blemish free. After a moment’s deliberation, I decided to open the door. As I stood beside her looking like a hobbit from Lord of the Rings, I decided to forget the zits and dumpiness and enjoy my night out, after all, they hardly ever happened.

As we zoomed off to Brighton (actually, Gambo drives like Miss Daisy but that didn’t sound quite so Thelma and Louise!), I felt liberated. It was like old times, except for the baby whose bottom lip had started quivering as he watched mummy wave goodbye, then run back in for another cuddle and then wave goodbye again.

As I hid at the darkest table available, I felt like an impostor amidst the young and the pert. When the bar suddenly transformed into a nightclub at 10.30pm, I felt it was time for me and my thick woolly cardigan with accompanying crocheted flower brooch to leave before someone made me.