Skin cancer

For the past couple of weeks I've had this ungodly itch just below my right shoulder blade, and it doesn't appear to be going away.  I can, therefore, only assume that it must be skin cancer.

I spent a good half hour staring into the mirror with my head craned over my shoulder and twisting every which way in order to get a look at my back.  Despite having stripped to my undies though, the cancer was made no more visible and I was disappointingly unable to locate it by eye.  While there is a mole on the left side of my back, it has been there since time immemorial and the fact that my mother still charmingly though inaccurately refers to it as a beauty spot tells me it is unlikely to be malignant.  But the right side nevertheless remains irritated, and the thought of what horror must be developing beneath the surface is a source of great consternation, and is beginning to keep me awake nights.

The lack of rash perplexes me.  In fact the only time it is ever marked is when I have been scraping at it during the day, an act which is beginning to cause the students at work to liken me to a cat, as it is often enacted against the back of a chair.  I have tried to subdue it by slathering myself in E45 cream, which quells it temporarily, but alas fails to rid me of it for good.

Blessedly, it does not appear to have spread anywhere yet.  I intend to bring it up at my forthcoming doctor's appointment though.  I know that they only like to deal with one problem at a time, but as I already feel like a drain on NHS resources I am absolutely fucking buggered if I'm booking in again.  It makes far more economic sense.

Amusingly, the doctor's name is Doctor Watson.  She is a pleasant woman, though seemed wholly unimpressed at my attempt at whimsy upon our last meeting.  Unable to answer my Case of the Palpitating Heart, I thought it would be funny to tell her that once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.  She remained stony-faced, but did at least restrain herself from hitting me in the mouth, which I have been tempted to do on more than one occasion when people ask me how my diamond empire is holding up.  And my surname isn't even Rhodes.

Cecil Rhodes.  Not me.  More's the pity.