Another book of selected short stories is about to published, the third, and like the first two it has nothing to do with espionage, glycoside or secret codes. Some of the stories are about surfing.
Here’s an example. It was written in 2011.
Women don’t look at surfers with the same concentration as we do them. A surfer’s glance at a woman is better described as a fixed-radius searchlight in that it always goes the same scenic route.
You can add one more if her clothes are on the floor and she’s walking towards you, another if she’s walking away.
The woman though has much more to deal with because so much can go wrong with The Surfer. The lady we think is gazing at us with wistful longing is in fact running her own body check.
Follow us on her journey.
That small trace of white matter seeping from the corners of your eyes, that redness around the pupil? That’s herpetic keratoconjunctivitis: Madras Eye. Not a good look, you’ll probably shed a tear when she walks away and that’s precisely the treatment your eyes need. How’s the irony eh?
Sinuses are a swamp of embarrassment for the surfer. He knows what has been forced up the sinus passages early in the morning must obey gravity and come back down later in the day but doesn’t know the proper etiquette for mopping up a puddle of nose-water from a girl’s navel. Lucky you got that far.
But no further, and too bad.
The surfer’s been in the sun and saltwater all day battling wind and swell and his lips are a little dry, a little cracked – but it’s like cool, right? World champion surfer Tom Carroll has been getting away with chapped lips for half his life and still gets profile shots in the magazines.
This matters little with the lady in question because she knows what erythema looks like and it looks like angular cheilitis.
What you have is a fungal farm on your lips and there is no way the lady is going there tonight, bro – so you might as well kiss her goodbye, like hell.
What could go wrong here? A neck is a neck, all it does is hold up the head and funnel the food.
This lady however knows her way around – and she’s looking at your emerging caruncle, your wattle. Twenty years in saltwater have negated all the skin’s natural elasticity and now you look like Granma Gettigan down there. Plus there’s a small forest of mature hair in the gulleys that need attention.
This isn’t your day. Know it.
The top-end acres. This is the main attraction, even if the head is a bit of a pineapple what babe could resist such a fine-tuned torso?
She can because it’s not all roses and abs down there, dude. Google how many different terms there are for nipple rash.
Jogger’s nipple, surfer’s nipple, gardener’s (?) nipple, raver’s nipple and red nipple. Whatever you want to call it it’s fissure of the nipple, plus there is the possibility that it contains a smear of eczema or a touch of impetigo, a dimpling of psoriasis – whatever, you’ve got it and she’s spotted it.
It’s candida and you read it here first.
Here’s you thinking yeast was just for making bread rise. Wrong again you dill and the lady is well onto it; yeast is bugs and bugs in the navel is candida and candida is fungus. No good just gazing into there brother, some places need a regular reaming and knowing that Candida was also a hot little Mexican stripper you met in Tijuana in 1973 doesn’t excuse you, asamatteroffact there could be more bad news on that front in the future.
Thighs have a neighbourhood problem, and it’s the folks upstairs that started it.
We’re talking tinea cruris here, eczema (me again) marginatum – that’s crotch rot, dhobi itch*. You may think that wearing boardshorts gives you a fresh air run here but the old travelling jock itch is a little unmistakable in the attention-seeking department – it itches like a bastard.
*Dhobi itch; back when the English ruled the world and were busy subjugating India they used to have the locals do their laundry – nothing like washing out a gross of old pommie underpants for a living – so the locals put a lot of effort into putting a lot of soap into the wash and not much rinsing it out. The result was some very hard underdaks, hence rash, hence dhobi (laundryman) itch.
Most surfers don’t worry enough about their toes and as a result have rarely come to terms with the life that teems between them. Trichophyton interdigital, those fellows, they breed like rabbits and don’t bury their dead – hence the odour. Footrot is what you’ve got.
The condition also itches like all the furies and the minute you bend down to give them a scratch that’s the game given away. No way tonight will those digits be allowed to touch female flesh
Walk away lad.
pic is of Midget