It's bad day when you no longer know the back of your own hand. But that's what has become of me.
48 hours on, and memories of Jane's party continue to raise a smile. However, at some point along the way, something bit me. I don't think it was a fellow guest but it was dark so I can't be sure.
Whatever the truth, my left wrist was itchy on the journey back from Manchester and, as yesterday went on, it got itchier. When darkness fell, it was starting to ache. And by the time I climbed out of my pit this morning to face another week, I was swollen up from the tip of my fingers to halfway up my forearm.
The nice lady in the local chemist kindly gave me some tablets and a tube of cream in return for eight British pounds. They've made little difference thus far although time is apparently a great healer.
For now, I'm left with the back of a hand that I cannot recognise. It's bloated and also appears to have shortened in length. From my angle, I've become a chubby little fat man. And it's messing with my brain.
All day I've had images of fellow chubby little fat men wobbling through my mind.
Ricky Gervais. Norm from Cheers. Winston Churchill. Reg Holdsworth from Coronation Street. Wayne Slobb. Phil "The Power" Taylor. Peter Kay. And Johnny bloody Vegas.
If my real left hand hasn't returned to action by tomorrow, I'm going to wear a glove. I wasn't a huge Michael Jackson but being him for the day has got to be better than this.