#Twotto

I picked up a QuickPick yesterday for tonight's OzLotto $90 million dollar super draw. A QuickPick lets the newsagent's Whiz-Bang Random Number Auto-Generator Machine takes the hard work out of crossing numbers off a ticket. In our busy modern world, it's the occasional gambler's best friend.

But then I decided to open myself up to different possibilities.

Surely, I thought to myself, this gigantic jackpot is a good opportunity as any to really tap in to the gestalt mind of my collective friend and acquaintance group. To harness the brain power of reasoned, thinking persons, with the hope of creating a whole greater than the sum of its individual parts.

Or, in simpler terms, to get a bunch of people to throw numbers at me.

I used Twitter, the oh-so-popular social networking service that both fascinates and frustrates me in turn. Calling my experiment #twotto (a combination of "twitter" and "lotto"), I started soliciting for numbers between 1 and 45. I promised to reward them if I did in fact win. You know, throw 'em a slab of Crown Lager or a Myer gift voucher or something.

I got enough replies to fill six games of a bright yellow Oz Lotto ticket:

My ticket to Barbados & a date with Richard Armitage. I mean - er - my ticket to
helping others including charities, homeless spinsters, hairless giraffes and whatever.

The seventh game was made up of The Wah's contribution. Genetically incapable of being excited by gambling, he loftily reiterated the fact that the draw is completely random, and all numbers have equal chance of being pulled out of the mechanical tumbola. Ergo, his seven numbers ran 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7.

Interestingly, I found the most commonly suggested numbers were, in order, 14, 27 and 7. ALL MULTIPLES OF SEVEN.

And yet, what happened this evening, when the draw finally took place?

Of course - nothing.

A few of the #twotto games recorded one winning number; one got two - all of which equates to sweet Fanny Adams, as my father would say.

However! After checking over the #twotto ticket, I then examined my QuickPick ticket.

Four winning numbers, which equates to a Division 6 - the second-lowest - prize of $20.45.

In this case, THE MACHINES BEAT THE HUMANS.

I think there's a lesson in that for all of us.

Terrorist Chickens

"Watch out!" squealed my ten-year-old cousin, Amber. "They're terrorist chickens!"

I was plonked on the asphalt driveway of my aunt's home, trying to snap some pictures of her "pet" chickens.

"They are!" Amber enthused, as my other cousin Alex fluttered about herding the browny-orange birds in the direction of my lens. "This wild rooster got in, and got them excited, and bit me on the bum!" she said. "I kicked it away, but it came back, and bit me again!"

"You got bitten on the bum by a Wild Rooster Terrorist Chicken - twice?"

"Yes!" she nodded. "So what makes these chickens terrorist chickens, then?" I asked.

"Oh, they're all the same!" was the reply, as she scrambled for safety into the passenger side of her parents' car and slammed the door behind her.

I don't know. I thought the chickens were reasonably charming. But maybe Amber's got a point. Sometimes, those chickens, when they look at you...

The King is Dead

The scariest nightmare I've ever had was about Michael Jackson.

I don't mean that disrespectfully, now that the King of Pop's heart has given out, and he lies, getting colder, on a slab at the UCLA mortuary. But it's the strongest personal memory I can grasp of the man right now.

The very first Compact Disc my mother bought my brother and I was Michael Jackson's 1992 epic Dangerous. I still know all the words to "Black Or White" and "Who Is It?". After Madonna's Erotica, it was the defining album of my pre-teen music experience, and my brother and I would rock out in the rumpus room for hours on end listening to it.

I don't remember when Michael Jackson became scary, exactly. But by the time of my nightmare, which occured in the early 2000s, he was a frightening wreck of a shadow of his former self.

In my nightmare, my parents were forcing me to marry Michael Jackon in - of all places - the Imax Theatre at Dreamworld (a Gold Coast themepark). Now I hate Imax theatres - I get motion sickness - and there I was, dressed in some sort of giant poufy peach dress, with a massive veil, up at the back, facing Jacko, in a full HIStory-era spangled faux-military outfit, down the front.

I remember turning, and sobbing at my parents, saying "Please don't make me marry Michael Jackson!" And that's when I woke up, in a sweat, with tears in my eyes. It took me ages to calm down enough to risk sleeping again.

(Of course my dear parents would never have forced me to marry Michael Jackson. My mum enjoyed his music well enough, but my Dad just thought he was weird.)

His death brings to a close a brilliant yet bizarre career. His musical genius and extraordinary performance skills will be remembered; but his legacy will be dogged by the plastic surgery rumours and startling image makeovers, and of course, the Never Never Ranch and his acquittal on child molestation charges.

Hopefully his children will have time to grieve and recover in privacy; I hope even more they avoid some of the terrors their father faced.

Dangerous may have been the Michael Jackson solo album I listened to most, but in these hours after his death, I choose to remember the young, energetic, bright Michael of the Jackson Five - in one of my all-time favourite songs.

Pigs & Birds

I'm just going to show you this photo...

...and let you make up your own joke captions. Extra points if you can do something original with "swine flu".

I met this perky pink porker at the Brisbane Convention & Exhibition Centre, where I did the last of my MC gigs for the Queensland Firebirds. I've been hosting the pre-game corporate functions for the side's home games. It's been a lot of fun. I've redeveloped an interest in netball, a game I last played as an 11-year-old. Boy, things are different since my days in the GK bib. Players are tall, lithe, quick, nimble and aggressive (in a good way). And the sport is run by people who actually care about the players and the sport's reputation.

Plus they chuck free blue mini-netballs and frisbees into the crowd during the quarter-time breaks.

Netballers can't rely on their sporting salaries to survive; most work full or part-time jobs elsewhere. However, it was revealed at tonight's function that the current ANZ Championship series has recorded higher TV viewing figures on average than both the A-League football and the Super 14 - both of which have much bigger piggy banks than the fellow pictured above.

So if you're looking for a sport to get behind that's full of competitive spirit, action and goodwill, you could do worse than try netball.

There was a moment in the foyer this evening which confirmed one of my own personal maxims - that where there is a person inside a full-size animal costume, there are children keen to beat the shit out of them. Sadly I was too late on the record button to capture the attempted piggy thrashing, so instead, enjoy some funky pig dancing:

A Clumsy Guide to Bra Shopping

Leave house in relative high spirits.

Have a successful pre-bra purchase (eg, running shoes), that gives you a confidence booster. "Damnit, if I can conquer Asics, I can find something to fit my assets!"

Walk into Myer, a store whose lingerie department generally stocks a good variety of styles in a 34E, and which also has many products on a 30% off mid-year sale.

Employ squats, oblique twists and other intricate aerobic stretches in an attempt to find the 34Es among the seemingly billions of brassiers hanging off those torturously skinny stacked racks.

At this point, have a philosophical moment: perhaps wonder why staff cannot stock bras size by size. That way, you could walk to the 34E section, then just pull out whatever colours/fabrics/styles you liked. Feel pretty impressed with your own genius.

Realise, for some reason, that all the 34Es seem to be placed on the lowest racks, next to the floor. Get dizzy spells from all the bending down. Decide to plonk arse on floor and sort through like some sort of bra-bag lady.

Eventually, find a selection of bras designed for the larger bust that DON'T all look like over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. Try not to think about the much prettier ones you could get if only you were a 32B.

Take into changeroom. Be man-handled by Colditz-style Guard of the Fitting Room, and ordered to only take five bras into cubicle. Meekly obey, leaving remaining two bras on waiting rack (to be subsequently forgotten about).

Enter cubicle with its 270-degrees of mirror reflection. Remove upper clothing garments. Utter first sigh of the fitting procedure. Wonder if breasts are sagging more these days.

Try first bra, a purple lacy Triumph. Pretty, but too tight - leaves prominent back-fat rolls protuding from side. Call Colditz Guard. Ask for advice. Listen as she tells you "some people just have that, and can't do anything about it." Mentally tell her to F*** RIGHT OFF. You've seen What Not to Wear and How to Look Good Naked. You know that s*** can be hidden.

Have Colditz Guard bring you the 36DD version of bra, which is similar cup size, but slightly more give in the straps. Back-fat rolls less visible, but still present. Consign to "no" pile.

Try on Bra 2, a very sweet pink Fayreform. It fits like a dream: great straps; lovely strong side panels; great detailing. But unfortunately it flattens bust just above the nipple. Breasts look like dough slapped with a rolling pin. Consign to "no" pile.

Try on Bra 3, a white Berlei Sports. Marvel at engineering and design, that make it seem like breasts have been funnelled into the torpedo chamber of a Collins Club submarine. Long and pointy. Wonder how increasing protrusion of breasts can make them more supported. Surely physics would dictate the opposite. Jog up and down on the spot; watch Sportsbra struggle to keep breasts horizontal. Consign to "no" pile.

Take a moment to have a minor panic about possible breast saggage. Your rack is the one decent physical attribute you have, it can't be headed south just yet. Stand with arms folded across chest, thus forcing breasts up. Decide they look much better this way, and make note to self to adopt this position if ever accidentally caught topless.

Try Bras 4 and 5, both dark lacy Elle MacPherson Intimates. Have had luck with this brand before; surely "The Body" won't let you down now? Bra 5 seems to be the winner; a sleek outline, supportive straps, comfortable in the cup. But something isn't quite right. Stick head out cubicle door and ask for help. Have new guard tell you to ring the buzzer, and someone will come and help. Fearing Captain Colditz, refuse to do so.

Spend the next 15 minutes alternating between the two Elle MacPherson bras, trying to decide if either or both are any good.

Eventually, close to tears, throw hands up in despair. Rehang all bras on fidgeting plastic hangers and shove into the waiting arms of Captain Colditz, as you half-run away from the black hole of self-esteem that is the Bra Fitting Room.

Oh yes, and make sure to put original bra and top back on.

A Horror Budget

Queensland’s economic blueprint was splattered in blood and gore Tuesday, as Treasurer Andrew Fraser announced massive $18 billion spending spree and an immediate increase in organ consumption.

“This is undoubtedly the toughest budget Queenslanders have had to face in many years,” said the Treasurer, as he ripped into the skull of a departmental media adviser.

“We understand it means hardship for some, but we must protect the infrastructure program, job creation and our insatiable bloodlust. We need fresh ideas from fresh, tasty brains to get the budget – unlike this recently decapitated corpse - out of the red.”

Queenslanders had already expected the slashing of the 8 cents a litre fuel subsidy, but Mr Fraser admitted the slashing of the carotid arteries of anyone within a five-metre radius of a service station would put an extra burden on motorists.

“It’s unfortunate, but we hope a positive side-effect will be an uptake in public transport,” said Mr Fraser. “This will benefit our massed armies of the undead, who will help us improve our Standard & Poor’s credit rating through an orgiastic, cannibalistic feast on trapped commuters.”

Questions from the parliamentary media gallery about how this would work were silenced by the blood-curdling screams of two ABC reporters, whose recording devices were savagely torn from their hands, and their hands in turn savagely torn from their bodies.

Gary Fites from motor lobby group RACQ has been listed by Queensland Police as “missing, presumed devoured”, and could not be contacted for comment.

Opposition Leader John-Paul Langbroek said Mr Fraser's second budget was a disastrous one for Queensland. "It's going to take eight years to pay off this government's reckless spending program," he said.

Asked if he had already suffered permanent brain damage during the budget lock-up briefing, Mr Langbroek looked confused. "I'm fine," he said. "This is what I usually sound like."

Further screams were then heard from the parlimentary media gallery. "Now that's really terrifying," said one AAP correspondent.

My Father, the Comedian

So if you were my father, and wanted to give your darling daughter a gift that really reflected some of her recent domestic experiences, what you would you choose?

 

Do you see what he did there?

Having said that, I must take umbridge with the tagline "The Funniest Movie of the Year!" Mousehunt was released in 1997, and I found this list of box office returns for that year. Mousehunt was quite popular, ranking 27th in popularity, but a glance at the rest of the list surely offers up some more likely contenders - Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery, Men in Black, My Best Friend's Wedding, Beautician and the Beast, Booty Call... well, all right, perhaps not.

A Cultured Sunday

Having snaffled some free tickets from work, I took The Wah for a surprise Sunday morning visit to the Brisbane Cheese Tastes event at Royal on the Park this morning. After stuffing ourselves on grilled haloumi & melted raclette on bread, we discovered the interior displays, and really got down to sampling. After picking up some fresh goat's cheese and a vintage cheddar from the always-tasty Maleny Cheese, we went off for a walk through the City Botanic Gardens.

We ended up at Old Government House, which has recently opened to the public after an extensive restoration for Queensland's 150th anniversary of statehood.

It's quite lovely, and I'd recommend everyone get along for a visit. It's free, and you can wander about the big empty rooms as much as you like. You can even have high tea in their new cafe, and feast on one of these babies:

For the non-Australians-and-New-Zealanders, the lamington is a quintessential antipodean dessert. It was the French chef at Queensland's Old Government House who officially invented the lamington. Forced to improvise when extra guests turned up for an afternoon tea, he dipped sponge cake squares in chocolates, then rolled them in dessocated coconut. Being a Frenchman, I imagine he said voilà! then got back to eating frogs' legs and playing the piano accordion (that friendly bit of Francophobia is included purely for my friend Aurelie). The name lamington comes from Lord Lamington, who was Governor at the time.

We then hit the Botanic Gardens again. See if you can spot me in here:

And I'm quite happy with a series of photographs I took of this bird, as he warmed his wings in a little patch of winter sunshine:

Now, for that 3:15am start...

Domestic Effing Goddess

First, I conquered my baking curse with this delightfully baking-soda-free batch of "mini-scones":

Then, remembering we had a fresh Jap waiting to be used (courtesy of The Wah's mysterious sire, The Ancient Man), I backed up to create a delicious pumpkin & chickpea dip:

Then I dolled myself up all nice and pretty, and went out to one of those funky young people's clubs where they do young people's things and listen to young people's music with the doof-doofing and the $17 vodka mixers and the INCESSANT MOBILE TWEETING.

Actually I stayed in, put a rinse through my hair, a clay mask on my face, and watched David Starkey:

Just call me Nigella, folks. Just call me Nigella.

Iconic

Ladies and gentlemen.

I think we can all agree that Yours Truly and Clumsily is one of the humblest, most decent and fabulously down-to-earth persons you're ever likely to encounter. It is not my style to self-aggrandise, to point out how envious others should be of my uber-hip existence. I may be the cream of Brisbane's social elite, but it's not my place to tell others they want a lick.

But lately, I get the feeling I need to do a little more self-promotion. Because people seem to be passing my all-round awesomeness.

It began last week, when I was left off the City News list of 100 Movers and Shakers in Brisbane.

"Odd," I thought at the time. "If they'll let red-headed radio announcers on, surely I should have a spot."

But I shrugged it off, and went back to sipping skinny soy decaf mocha lattes and watching Spanish films.

However, today appears to be strike two against the "Isn't Girl Clumsy Friggin' Fantastic?" movement - as I have been left off the Queensland's 150 Icons List.

It's a shock, I know. You'd think I could have made two or three of the categories.

"Sports Legends" - sure, I've never represented Queensland in any major sporting code, but I was in the St Paul's School 1993/1994 back-to-back premiership-winning girls' hockey team. And let's not forget I walked 10 kilometres of the Great Wall of China, despite my dodgy knee. I don't remember "King" Wally Lewis or that wet blanket Pat Rafter having to climb up those steep ascents.

In the "Defining Moments" category - all right, I may not own a giant winking kangaroo, or have those funky pavillions from World Expo '88, but Doctor Who parties at my place are always guaranteed to go off.

And as for "Influential Artists" - well, this is the knife that cut deepest. Oh yeah, David Malouf may have banged out a classic novel or two, and Geoffrey Rush may have picked up more silverware for acting than a kleptomaniac convict, but Keith Urban? Are the Queensland people honestly prepared to admit that the bloke who sings... um... that song with the ... um... yeah, that country music song, you know the one I mean - the bloke who sings THAT - are the Queensland people honestly going to say Mr Nicole Kidman has given more to this state artistically that moi? Can I remind you people - I AM THE GIRL WHO CONSTANTLY PARADES HER BOSOM AT IMPROVISED COMEDY SHOWS. Does that mean NOTHING to you?!?

Well, I hope you're all happy with yourselves and your voting. If you wanted to aim your slings and arrows at my fragile ego, then mission accomplished. This little heart will need some mending after this epic betrayal.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go. I think I have something in my eye...

Improvisers Prefer Blondes

Reason I shouldn't go blonde: it's very expensive.

Reason I should go blonde (and get around in 1920s gear):

 

It is quite early on the Queen's Birthday Monday, but our very wonderful and talented musician Kris Anderson posted this photograph - from Sunday night's Impro Mafia performance of Agatha Holmes, our Agatha Christie/Sherlock Holmes improvised murder mystery parody - and my vanity took over. I adore this photograph; moreover, I adored the show.

I played Lady Augusta Wellesley, the owner of Cadsworth Manor, where the brutal murder took place. We held an audience ballot before the show to decide which of our characters would be the murderer and the victim, and what would be the murder weapon (in this case - a bowl of trifle). The first half depicted the events leading up to the murder (as "narrated" to the great detective Agatha Holmes by his assistant Wastings); the second half was Agatha Holmes' arrival, interrogation of suspects and the classic "denouement".

It was such a fun show; made all the more enjoyably by wonderful costumes provided by the Arts Theatre's spectularly well-equipped and pleasantly-staffed costume department. It was some damn fine impro too - a credit to Dave, who directed the show, and to my fellow performers, who just shone. The best thing about impro is getting to hang out and be creative with some of my closest and coolest friends - having audiences enjoy and even relish what we do is the absolute icing on the cake.

The Best Laid Plans

The best-laid schemes o'mice an 'men,
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain
For promis'd joy!
-Robbie Burns, To A Mouse (1785)

I offer up the words of the Scottish poet as a tribute to The Clan Squeaky. Of course Burns himself would probably prefer I offered you a celebratory dram instead (with a triple for himself, the great Hebridean lush), but nonetheless, the mournful Scots language will have to suffice for a eulogy.

That's right. The Clan Squeaky was a valiant enemy. But it has been all but vanquished.

The false sense of security we fell into after the capture of the fearsome matriarch Ms Squeaky in the pre-dawn hours of Thursday was broken less than 24 hours later, when her offspring decided to show their tiny baby mousey faces again. God knows where they had been in the interim since fleeing their toilet paper nest; somehow I think I may be better not knowing.

The Wah found the first one hiding under the fridge, after hearing suspicious rustling sounds. I then spotted the second dashing under the TV cabinet; and the third then turned up in the Bat Cave. Unlike their now-missing mother, they were not afraid of us. The Wah came close to picking up the third mouse by the tail before it zipped away. Being younger, they also seemed slower, which we believe aided in our eventual success in their capture.

I wish I'd had a video camera rolling on the series of slapstick physical encounters we had with the mice around half past one this morning. I've never seen so much silliness with shoeboxes. I managed the first capture; launching the large box lid from my recent boot purchase at Mousey One as it hurried away from the couch. Like a frisbee it soared and landed neatly over the little blighter. Unfortunately it was too big to flip over onto the box effectively, and Mousey One escaped The Wah's grasp and joined its sibling under the fridge.


We established another blockade of laundry powder boxes and the Wii Fit case and readied ourselves. The Wah got his "pointy stick" (a fancy fake-flower accoutrement thingy) and poked about under the Westinghouse. Then, bang! Mousey One, panicked, fled in the only direction he could, which happily was directly into the humane mouse trap, which we'd re-set near the fridge.

We turned our attention to Mousey Two, who unfortunately was a lot more spirited than his or her sibling. The Wah managed to slam a shoebox down on him, but it sprang out of a gap as he tried to put on the lid, and dashed into a gap between the cupboard and the dishwasher. A few more pokes later, and The Wah had coaxed him back out - eventually slamming both hands down around Mousey Two for a catch that would make *insert name of famous football goalkeeper here* proud. We got him into shoebox - and thus, we had two meeces:

We headed up to the park again, and The Wah released the two mice:

And just because it's pretty, here's a photo of a very misty Gregory Terrace:

So I'm sorry Ms Squeaky. You laid plans to have a family in my house - plans that I have foiled. Well, technically The Wah was the grand plan-foiler, but that's beside the point. Life isn't fair, and I'm sure I'll have more than my fair share of plans "gang agley" too. But for now, I'm notching up a victory for me. Well, technically a victory for The Wah, but that's beside the point.

Of course, one member of the Clan Squeaky remains. I caution the tim'rous wee beastie to surrender now...

Capture & Disappearance

Around half past three this morning, having been plagued by a combination of sleeplessness and nightmares, the Wah arose to discover the humane mouse trap we had set up to catch Ms Squeaky was closed.

Now over the past week, we had caught Ms Squeaky in this device no less than two times. The trap is not transparent, so we had transferred the mouse into first a laundry basket, then a tall bucket, in order to make sure it was actually in there. But the sneaky little bugger had escaped both times - once mysteriously ("Where'd she go?!?!") and once brazenly ("Oh no, she's escaping!" "Well, stop her!" "I can't, I'm too scared!").

So when the Wah found the shut trap in the pre-dawn hours, he decided not to bother trying to transfer it. He simply grabbed it, headed up to the park at the end of our street, and set Ms Squeaky into the wild.

I should point out at this stage that I Slept Through the Whole Thing.

But it wasn't all good news - the Wah went on a search for Ms Squeaky's three little babies under our spare bed - only to discover the nest was empty! We estimate the babies to be at least two weeks old now - almost, if not actually, self-reliant.

Where have the Squeaky siblings gone? The saga continues...

UPDATE! Oh, how cocky we were - this evening we came home to spy one baby mouse under the fridge, and another scuttling under our couch. God knows where the third one is.

THIS IS DISNEY HELL.

The Face

I had acne once.

Not spots. I had those through school, a constant irritant around my chin and on my forehead.

But in my second year out of school, it all got worse.

My face became a mass of tiny but angry yellow tips, surrounded by red raw circles, that gradually spread out to join other circles, creating a unstoppable wave of ugliness. The pimples went all over my face - my nose, my cheeks - every conceivable space from my hairline to my jawline was covered.

I used to try creams, potions, fancy washes. I used to scrub at my face with brutal exfoliants and harsh astringents. I cried when nothing worked. When I went out, I attempted to cover the spots with heavy foundation. Of course, I was a student, and couldn't afford good stuff. It would slide off with the grease of the spots, leaving me looking like a clown after a heavy storm. Mind you, I'm not sure expensive make-up would have been much more effective.

I used to work at a supermarket, and the comments came often enough to upset me. Many would say "You must eat too much junk food!". Yes, I did. I always have. But it couldn't be all that. I ate plenty of fruit and vegetables as well. I always had. The worst was the kids. "Mummy, what's wrong with her face?" they would loudly whisper, in that embarrassment-free way native to them. "Shh, don't be rude," their mothers would say, avoiding my gaze as they piled bread and milk onto the conveyor.

I saw doctors, of course. Most would hand me prescriptions for topical creams and send me away again. Eventually I went on the Diane contraceptive pill, one specifically designed to combat adult acne. I was not having sex at the time. With a face like mine, how could I possibly be?

One doctor said the next step would be going to a dermatologist and most likely being treated with Roaccutane, a somewhat controversial treatment for severe acne. I had the referral notice and everything, but thought I would wait and see if the pill had any effect at all.

Then, one day at the checkout, a woman reached over and handed me a Post-It Note. She had an accent, but I can't really remember what it was. "He treated my daughter," she said. "He has very good treatments, and will help you." She went back to loading groceries into her trolley. I looked at the note. It was the handwritten number of a dermatologist, bright blue on the stark yellow paper.

I finished my shift, then drove home in a paroxsym of anger and grief. I was young, it should be my time. I should be pretty, I should be attractive. I should not have a face like a three-day old pizza.

I decided to see the dermatologist my doctor recommended. A weight lifted off me when he said it wasn't due to junk food. Within minutes he'd diagnosed pyoderma faciale, and prescribed Roaccutane.

I was worried. "Doesn't it cause depression? Didn't two kids in America kill themselves while they were on it?"

The dermatologist was kind. He listened to my fears and treated them with respect. He said there was evidence pointing to depression as a possible side effect. But he also said firmly that it was effective, and that perhaps people had suffered depression because they had struggled with bad skin for a long time.

That's a fair point, I thought. I certainly wasn't feeling very great about myself at the time (despite the fact a bout of pnemonia had seen my weight plummet - I've never been that skinny since).

I had to have a blood test to make sure I wasn't pregnant, as Roaccutane certainly can cause birth defects, and cannot be taken by pregnant or breastfeeding women. I laughed bitterly on hearing this. I tried pointing out the obvious. "You honestly think somebody would sleep with this face?" Also, "I'm 18! What the hell do I want kids for?" Still, rules are rules. I had the test.

I was already on the pill, so once the official "negative" response came in, I went on the drug. Two tablets a day, for six months. Roaccutane works by blocking the production of oil in the skin glands, reducing the bacteria responsible for the inflamed skin. It started working within a few weeks. The angry yellowy-white pimple heads started to make their retreat. The redness began to fade.

The side effects were dry lips and dry eyes. The eyes were easily treatable with drops, but the cost to my lips is with me today - the constant peeling blurred the line of my lip in the bottom right-hand corner of my mouth.

Still, after six months, I was almost a completely different person. I could wear make-up without it sliding off. More importantly, I could walk out with my bare face, my natural face, and not be scared of frightening children or drawing helpful but hurtful comments.

To this day, I will never talk to a person with severe acne about my experiences, unless they specifically ask for information, or bring up their condition. People are only trying to be kind, but those who haven't experienced it don't understand how terrible you feel when somebody offers unsolicited advice. Sufferers are well aware of their problem - they see it every day in the mirror, in a reflection in a window, in the computer monitor as it blinks off. I know how much it rocked my self-esteem, and could never do that to others. But I will say if anybody reading this does have bad acne - do see a dermatologist. People suffering exzema or psoriasis aren't censored for eating "too much junk food". You shouldn't be either.

Having said that, I have had too much junk food in the past few days. I get lazy, and have never shaken my appetite for the naughty stuff. Consequently, I've broken out in mild spots across my forehead and chin. I don't like the way I look in the mirror. I think - I'm still young, I should be pretty, I should be attractive. I've got a show on this Sunday night - I want to feel confident and vibrant. Then, even as I rue my spots, I see small creases forming at the corner of my eyes. And I know I will come to loathe wrinkles as well, to battle them with creams, potions, fancy washes. But they are natural, and expected, and mean something.

There are many terrible things humans may have to endure. But my experience with acne taught me that interference with The Face must be one of the worst. People may claim to like big breasts, or slim legs, or pert buttocks. But at the end of the day, people must look most often at your face. It is all of you in a heartbeat. You don't have to be the most beautiful, the most handsome, the most symmetrical, the most smoothed-skin. But your face is the most human part of you. It's what people relate to, what they judge you by. Changes to that canvas - either naturally though a medical condition, or by outside trauma - can drastically affect how people treat you. It's why those children were so disgusted by me. My acne was abnormal, unclean - meaning I must be as well. I can only imagine what burns victims or those injured in car accidents or by physical assault must go through.

Short of adopting a burqa, you can't hide your face. You can't pretend it's not there. And you can't easily change it. Scientists have been transplanting hearts, and livers, and kidneys for decades. But faces? They're only just starting.

Love your face. You will only ever have one. It's probably not perfect. But it's whole, and it's you. Show it to the world.

Oh, but wear sunscreen.