When I was seven years old, I underwent surgery on both of my Achilles tendons. The recovery required me to have both legs encased in plaster of Paris from my toes to my knees for six long weeks.
At the start, I loved it. My legs became a living canvas as friends and family covered the white plaster in doodles and signatures. I can still understand the appeal of tattoos based on that early experience of wearing my social circle on my shins.
However, the novelty eventually wore off, replaced by a relentless, agonizing itch deep inside the casts. In our family home in Medway, we had a beautiful fireplace complete with a set of copper tools. Desperate for relief, I discovered that the long, slender fire poker was the perfect tool for the job. I would slide the cold metal down the top of the cast to reach those impossible spots. It was heaven, providing the only real relief I could find.
Finally, the day arrived to have the casts removed. The doctor brought out a specialized cutter and began the process of vibrantly buzzing through the layers of plaster. As the shells fell away, he suddenly recoiled in genuine horror.
My shins were stained a deep, mottled black.
For a terrifying second, the doctor was convinced he was looking at a catastrophic, gangrenous infection that had claimed both of my legs under his watch. His relief was palpable—and perhaps a little exasperated—when I explained that I’d simply been scratching myself with the soot-covered fire poker for the last month.
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