They call me Wallflower

I bet you'll all be relieved to know that my inexplicable injuries from Saturday are on the mend.

I say on the mend, but the wound, that's right WOUND on my knee will, without a shadow of a doubt, scar.

And in years to come, concerned strangers will gasp, put a comforting hand on my shoulder, and knowingly ask, 'Shark?'

As if things couldn't get any worse, in all probability, I will never be a leg model.

Those who are close to me will know that this was my back up dream.

Yes, if it turned out that I could not woo the world with my fiction, and win the Man Booker Prize five years in a row, I was going to get my legs out.

Probably for upmarket gigs, like Primarni, or Matalan.

Shattered dreams folks, shattered, tiny pieces on the floor at my feet (which are also a bit cut up) dreams.

As you may have come to expect from me, in times of trouble and despair, I would like to make a request for money. Money always makes me feel better. Give generously, holding onto the image of my horrific right leg, clad in a pair of reasonably priced shorts, being told by execs at Primarni, 'Shark bites just don't sell shorts.'

Brutal.

Absolutely brutal.

ALSO

Last night, me and GingerB were in the bathroom, going through the motions of our bedtime wind down. Beards were washed (mine), teeth were brushed. As is tradition, Ginger B would leave first, arms laden with his array of beauty products, and I would remain behind to floss.

Lovely.

However, last night, right, last night, he left the bathroom, and turned the light off on his way out. Then moments said, 'Oh sorry, I forgot about you.'

Moi, forgettable?

You'd think all of my recent clamouring for attention, i.e. despite spending 70% of Sat evening in complete darkness, managing to fall over twice in the 30% of complete viability, would infer that I was stuck fast in the memory of many.

Apparently not.

It does however make sense now as to why I was mowed down by a runner in Covent Garden, who's flabbergasted face accused me of coming out of nowhere. I think we had a fundamental disagreement about the speed involved in walking Vs running.

I'm fading away. I'm becoming a watermark.

All those mean people calling me 'Casper,' have finally cursed me. Once it existed as only a passing comment on my translucent, occasionally reflective skin tone, but now it has gone even further.

At least Casper had a castle, and a sort of girlfriend who never forgot him, and he was never assaulted by skinny men with massive backpacks (at least it was never documented in the films.)

I might see you soon, but you won't see me. It's been awesome (in parts).