I really want to think of myself as an aged ship - one of those you see pictues of. Hauled up on a beach in Bangladesh being slowly dismantled. Not a glamorous beach with deckchair attendants and beach clubs. Not even one with locals hawking handmade bracelets, hair-braiding and massages. Just a bay full of rusting hulks, listing to one side. Sparks from angle-grinders instead of full moon fireworks.
Or maybe I'm like a washed-up whale. Also being hacked apart for my jaw, for blubber, for precious ambergris. Or just alone on a remote sub-Antarctic island. A few penguins gazing on while petrels pick out my eyes.
But back to freckles. My best friend at primary school used to play join-the-dots with the freckles on my arm, in class. (I tended to play the subordinate role in my early friendships.) I already had enough freckles for a pointillist artwork. Explains why I later gravitated to Seurat when I did Art History.
Just the other day I caught myself photo-shopping out a dark freckle on my face for a photo for a work bio. No one could mistake it for a beauty spot - not with this face. Maybe I should get it checked?
My late brother and mother both used to regularly have potential skin cancers removed. I'd arrive home for a visit and find a bit more of them missing. Some were indeed skin cancers. One may have been responsible for my brother becoming 'my late brother'.
Anyway, this is all to say... get your spots checked regularly. Even if you're not blessed with red hair or fair skin. But don't worry about regular bottom scraping unless you're a boat.
Also what is the collective noun for barnacles?
