What the cluck! I’m turning into a chicken…
I’ve got these horrible little bumps all over my arms and my legs that make me look like a freshly plucked bird – and I don’t mean of the tweezered female lady-girl-woman kind.
And, okay, I know I shouldn’t be too worried about them because I’ve had them for years, and I know exactly what they are (they’re a skin condition called keratosis pilaris), but – for some strange reason – they seem to be getting worse and I don’t know why.
Could it be that I’m lacking in some kind of vitamin or nutrient maybe? (Mmm, a possibility…)
Am I eating too much of something? (Apart from cake… Please God, don’t make it be cake.)
Or perhaps it’s because my body hasn’t seen a flannel/scrubbing mitt/dry-skin brush for the best part of three decades. (No. That’s far too simple. It couldn’t possibly be that.)
Ah. I know what it is! It’s because I am, in fact, turning into a chicken.
Yes. Yes. I knew that if I thought about it logically I’d get there in the end. Ahhh, great. Well, that’s sorted then, isn’t it? I can carry on living my life.
Oh, cluck! I hadn’t thought of that.
I think it’s time I started an exfoliating regime.