I recently blogged about a visit to my local medical centre. Here is what else happened there...
After investigating the threat of the mole on my forehead, the doctor concluded that it was benign. However, it seemed to have grown over the past few years and I wanted to halt its progression before it enlarged further. This is not a vanity thing, aesthetically I could care less. (Though my ex-girlfriend did describe the mole as her "nemesis". Her whole personality was my nemesis.)
The doctor prescribed 'bazooka gel'.
I was sceptical.
Not because she held a quite unsettling resemblance to a Moomin. Nor because her empty paper tray had undermined an otherwise completely professional visit. I was concerned because bazooka gel is NOT to be applied to the face and NOT to be applied to moles.
"It's alright," she reassured me. "It's not a mole, it's a facial wart."
Perfect! The fear of applying acidic jelly to my face had suddenly vanished.
I used the bazooka gel that night, and while I certainly experienced a unique tingling sensation, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The gel was nursing my forehead back to full strength, idly smoothing my 'facial wart' down to nothingness.
The mole was a black scab come morning.
Several days later the scab washed away in the shower and the wart began to bleed. It continued to bleed for most of that evening actually, sadly coinciding with a formal dinner party at my cousin's house. (No interesting stories came from this, telling of the evening in general.)
It continued to bleed and re-scab for another few days.
Perturbed by this run of events, I returned to the doctors surgery and met another GP. To my astonishment, I recognised her...
It was Little My! Another character from 'The Moomins'! They've got the whole bloody kingdom working at the Village Green surgery. Her pink bow tie was missing but the untrusting scowl was firmly in place.
After another facial wart investigation, I inquired about the directions on the bazooka gel tube and how they seemed at odds with how I was using it.
"Yeah, I'd stop using the bazooka gel," said Little My, though she offered no explanation as to why I was prescribed the gel in the first place (Wikipedia tells me this is not uncharacteristic of Little My).
Probably good advice, I thought. But was she was prepared to fork out the fiver I paid for stuff...?
I didn't ask. I don't think they use pounds sterling in Moominvalley.
As it turns out, the only way they will surgically remove my mole is at my own expense. These are perfectly acceptable terms. As long as it remains at a reasonable size in comparison to my massive head, I'll keep it. If only because it exists as a bizarre anti-hero to my former partner. She was nuts.