It all began with a strange, tingling sensation in the front of my left thigh.
Lest you should think this column is heading in an unseemly direction, I should add that within 48 hours it had developed into an exceedingly painful area (like a large, invisible bruise).
A few days later this was replaced by a sensitive rash which began to spread with an ominous inexorability.
I had contracted shingles, a disease whose capacity for inflicting intense discomfort is exceeded only by the disarmingly bogus tenor of it name.
It sounds distinctly cheery, because it rhymes with various other jaunty little words like mingles, dingles and jingles.
Why don’t they just call it Throbbing Pox and be done with it?