Daft Old Duffer returns. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
I consider myself a reasonably clean person. I shower and replace my clothing frequently, clean my teeth often and shave daily.
Yet over the last couple of years I’ve acquired a whole new set of itches.
One pops up just in front of my left ear while I’m reading a book. Absent-mindedly scratching it results in my glasses ending up perched at a highly humorous angle on the tip of my nose.
Picture Colonel Mainwaring of Dad’s Army doing his standard knock-about routine.
No time for this
Another homes in just under my watch strap.
To deal with that one I have to hitch back my sleeve, remove the watch, scratch – and then replace everything. And in the meantime my book will have folded itself up and slid between my knees onto the floor. Closed, of course.
I get a patch of quite intolerable torment on the instep of my right foot mostly when I’m gingerly carrying a mug of hot coffee between kitchen and armchair. With nowhere to set the mug down and unable to move faster for fear of adding to the stain on the wall beside the door, I am forced to continue my suddenly long, long, trek in a mood of frenzied agony.
Even worse with that one was the time my instep itch struck while I was on a bus. After enduring minutes of furtive foot wriggling I was finally forced to lift my shoe onto the seat, undo the laces, slip the shoe off and then rub and scour luxuriously, emitting entirely un-English groans.
No-one moved away, but there was a bit of a silence.
It gets worse with age
We all know the shoulder blade itch. But I have to tell you it gets worse with age.
Bad enough at home, but infinitely worse when you’re out, wrapped in layers and buttoned and zipped against a cold wind. Then it is to know the meaning of helplessness.
‘Ignore it’ many of you will advise,’ Take no notice and it’ll soon go away.’
Well maybe, if you’re one of those people who has some of that willpower stuff.
On one occasion, during a howling wind, I stopped in the street, unzipped and unbuttoned, pulled everything out from the back of my trousers and thrust in and up a frantic thumbnail. At the same time arching over backwards and grimacing like an orang-outang laughing at a human.
The old lady with the shopping basket was lucky not to get run over, dashing across the road like that.
Getting to the bottom of it
But worst of all of course is the deep in the crevice of the bum, almost unreachable, quite excruciating torment.
Bearable indoors perhaps, where a deep wriggle-about finger gouging can bring some wonderful relief.
But out and about?
Royal treatment
How do Royals and politicians cope? Is there an expensive course you can go on?
If so I’d like to know about it. Might be a special rate for OAPs.
Most of all however I’d like to know why we itch in the first place. Is it God’s way of reminding us we’re not so blooming wonderful as we think we are?
