I believe that today’s titular phrase indicates a surrender to one’s curiosity – something which is supposedly unhealthy for those of a feline persuasion. I have rather a lot of curiosity and do surrender quite frequently (but rarely meow) – hence (a) my penchant for BBC4 documentaries and (b) being doomed to the life of a dilettante.
Even when walking (or cycling) around, curiosity is often my master (or mistress) and I feel the need to explore side-streets and possible alternative routes. This is particularly productive in a big city like London, where all manner of hidden delights can be glimpsed while the greater mass of humanity can be avoided. The only potential downside is that I found it difficult to stick with a single street, or a straight-line, for more than a few yards. This will, of course, prove to be a very useful habit should I ever pick up a “tail” – but is much less helpful for anyone with me hoping to learn the route from, for example, the station into town.
However, this post is much more literal than the preceding paragraphs might suggest. My nose is currently possessed of a sizeable black mark (near the bridge), and sadly these is no way for me to get it off. For the avoidance of doubt, I have not accidently disfigured myself with a permanent marker (a very proud boast for a felt-tip pen, and not one I suspect that would hold up to fact-checking on even a modest geological timescale) nor have I finally surrendered to the current vogue for the tattoo and chosen my nose as the target for the inky needle(s). No, the black mark is a rather impressive bruise from the nasal injury related in my last post – but to even quite detailed inspection it looks like I am not very good with a face flannel, soap and water. If it, as it may, evolve to yellow or purple then it may look less like unremoved grime – or at least like more colourful grime. However, otherwise I fear I am playing a waiting game here.
Anyway, this latest example of unintended self-harm did give me a new idea for how to monetise this blog – as frankly, it has yet to make me so much as a brass farthing (which, as my father will tell you, would need to be joined by 47 of its friends before I even had as much as a shilling! Or 5 shiny new pence for those born after decimalisation). I feel that GofaDM could sell a cardboard cut-out of our hero – possibly life size and probably stripped for action, though with sufficient “coverage” (Speedos?) to spare the blushes of both myself and the readers – on which subscribers could keep track of my injuries. It could also sell a variety of stickers or transfers (in little sachets) indicating different types of damage to my bod. It would be somewhat like a Panini sticker album or those part-work magazines – perhaps a free paper-cut could be offered with the initial cardboard cut out to sweeten the deal? Over 52 weeks, purchasers could build up a complete picture of a year’s worth of injuries to a somewhat clumsy middle-aged chap. Surely that would be more exciting than very slowly building either a boat or a book full of dodgy photos of current ball-kickers? And this could just be the start of GofaDM “merch” (as I believe it is known to the cognoscenti).