Rattle From The Breeze

Every morning, before I leave the house, I attach a prosthetic nose to my gnarly old face. Instead of a nose, which was eaten away by, first of all, cancer and then that MRSA superbug thing that I contracted during my spell in hospital to rid my face (by removing my cancer-ridden nose) of cancer, I have a big black hole in my face. It is, of course, quite disgusting. But at least you don’t have to look at it. I’m not forcing you to look at it. Just stick your finger in.

Have you ever seen anyone with a false nose? They try their best to make it look real but, you know, people can spot it a mile off. You should hear what the kids round here call me. My own kids are no better:

My mum’s got no nose.
How does she smell?
Fucking horrible. Like a pig in shit that’s just shit itself and smeared itself with the rotting, filthy guts of three dead cats.

Twenty years ago I was a loving young grandmother out for all I could get. Fuck everyone around me, I thought, as I strode the path of unrighteousness, picking up men, money and misery. Ah, but what did I know? Not much, as it turned out, as I ended up a love slave in a Persian harem where, among other dastardly things, a load of Arabs cut off my nose and pushed it up my arse.

No, wait, it was the cancer that took my nose, not the Arabs.

But anyway, there I lay, day after day, all tied up in a tent, naked and oily on a huge pile of scented pillows. What a picture. I mean, even before I had my nose off I wasn’t much to look at. Lord knows what those Arab lads saw in me. Still, at least I was having what you might call one of life’s little adventures.