February 13th

Excellent shopping trip last night. In the heart of theatreland, near Covent Garden, I found a little costume shop and couldn't resist taking a look inside.

Wigs!

That's right – wigs of every style and colour, outrageous wigs, sensible wigs, nasty synthetic wigs, luxurious natural wigs, everything an unwilling skinhead like myself could possibly desire.

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what my natural hair colour was. It was all shaved off at Larkhill and of course is now long gone, never to return. My remaining eyelashes are a sort of light brown so that's my best guess. No matter, I liberated a few hairpieces to play with – a scruffy blond short one, a shoulder-length dark one with a fringe and a rather Einstein-esque grey 'mad professor' one. Hey, it amused me, so I took it.

I'm wearing the blond one as I write, having just bathed and enjoying my daily hour of liberation from my second skin. Regarding myself in the mirror, I look just a little more human with this scruffy mop atop my head. Of course, it won't fit over the hood but to be honest that's been getting on my nerves lately and I've been stuffing it down the back of my coat when I go outside. I can't turn my head properly with the damn thing on, and with this mask I really do need to move my head around more to see where I'm going. My 'spider sense' does a fine job of making up for the lack of peripheral vision, but I still worry that I'm going to end up under a bus if I'm not careful. But I digress.

The dark one is beautifully sleek, but I'm not sure it's 'me'. Maybe I'll try it with my work clothes later on, but the scruffy blond is definitely more in keeping with my daytime wardrobe. Albert just looks daft, but I think I could tame it into a convincing 'old man' hairstyle. Add a stoop, walk with a shuffle, get myself a walking stick and I dare say I could pass as an old codger. Might be useful for something.

February 14th

Valentine's Day. I wonder if anyone's missing me.

I wonder if I'll ever know love.

I confess, dear diary, I'm writing tonight through something of a haze. Too much schmaltz on the radio, too many posters in shop windows proclaiming that we all need that special someone. My date for the evening is clear and sharp and goes rather well with ice. Part of my mind tells me it's a blatantly commercial holiday and reasons that I should feel no worse than any other day, but feel sorry for myself I do and that's that. I know nobody in this world and nobody knows me. I probably need to make an effort to meet people, but how can I just go up to someone and talk to them? A man can only cope with so much rejection.

Fuck Larkhill, fuck them for turning me into this… thing. Fuck you Valerie, why did you have to give me hope? I read your letter again today and all I want is to have roses, and I know I never will. Fuck pain, fuck this pathetic attempt at skin. Fuck you V, blowing yourself up was such a stupid idea. The fucking vodka's all gone and I've got no bloody cigarettes left.

February 15th

In truth, my face isn't any worse than the rest of my body.

But it's the one part of me that can't be hidden, not in the 'normal' world. Our faces are how we identify ourselves to the world, and how the world identifies us. To be "two-faced" is to be distrusted. And it is no coincidence that a synonym for shame is "losing face."

The difficulty with burn injuries is that, like a fire that smolders, damage accrues to the face long after the initial burn is over. One of the ways the body heals is by contracture, drawing the sides of a wound together. The response probably evolved millennia ago as a survival response to the types of injuries sustained by our forebears. When a wild animal has torn your flesh apart, the best way to heal that injury is to close it as quickly as possible. The mechanism, however it evolved, doesn't serve burns very well. It makes grafted skin contract and shrink, especially in the crucial T-zone -- the eyes, nose and mouth -- where most of our expression happens.

As I study myself in the mirror, I swear I can see my face getting worse as the days pass. Despite my daily facial gymnastics, there is still such resistance if I try and open my mouth really wide. My top lip is so tight I can barely move it, just speaking normally pulls all the way up my cheek to my right eye. Try as I might to raise a non-existant eyebrow, I just can't do it. An attempt at a big smile leaves me feeling as if my entire face is going to crack.

It still hurts to do normal things, even bending my knees to sit in a chair sends pain up my legs, but I've learned to ignore it all. I'm so used to the way my skin aches, including the itching and burning I feel every second, that it is as if I never really feel it anymore. My mind has blocked it out and unless I stop to notice it, the sensitivity and uncomfortable nature of the healing grafts isn't even in my thoughts.

I hope so much that my diligence with moisturizing and the painful exercises I do every day will eventually pay off and while I'm never going to be pretty, I will at least win the fight for mobility.

February 16th

Roses. They might be from a florist rather than grown by my own hand, but the message is the same. A token of my appreciation to a woman who gave me some pretty memories and showed that some people in the world actually care. I hope they raised a smile in the grimness of the burns ward.

As Valerie explained to me, everyone should have roses at least once.

February 17th


The Dog and Duck is a pretty dingy drinking establishment, but dingy suits me. It's a local haunt for society's undesirables such as myself, and so I fit in rather well. I've overheard the barmaid referring to me as 'freaky mask guy' - refreshingly honest of her, I thought. I've been frequenting the Dog of late, as it's an excellent place to make a few pounds selling on the spoils of my late night shopping trips, though I do have an unfortunate habit of drinking a little too much of my profits. I know what you're thinking dear diary, but spare me the lecture. Besides, I generally prefer to stay on the merry side of the drinking curve, and it doesn't take many ales to get me there. According to the regular clientele, I'm something of a 'lightweight' so I don't think you need to worry about my disappearance into an alcoholic stupor any time soon. I get to talk to a few people - funny how they suddenly decide they don't mind your appearance when you offer to buy them a beer – make a few sales and if I'm lucky there'll be someone new to beat at darts. None of the regulars will play me any more you see, not even if I handicap myself by throwing left handed.

February 18th

10. 'Death by Burger'. Must try harder, I appear to still be alive.

9. Kebab. Preferably served after lager.

8. Pizza – specifically an 'Italiano' with plenty of mozzarella.

7. Sweet and sour chicken, Hong Kong style.

6. Spaghetti Bolognaise, but only if it's from that little place in Fulham.

5. A new entry at number five for Beef Chow Mein.

4. Lamb Palak. The spinach means I can pretend it's good for me. 

3. Fish and chips. Not too much salt, plenty vinegar.

2. Chicken korma with pilau rice, coriander naan and onion bhajis.

And holding on to the number one spot for the second week running, ladies and gentlemen…

1. Kow Soy. Noodles, chicken, beansprouts, baby corn, those funny little crunchy onion things. Heaven in a promptly-delivered polystyrene tub.

February 19th

Today I dressed in my best and visited the Tate. The security guards looked at me very strangely but after an hour or so they seemed to accept that I wasn't there to try and steal their paintings.

In fact, I wouldn't have taken their paintings if they'd paid me. I may be suffering from a most spectacular case of amnesia, but I'm pretty damn sure that the biggest gallery in London should have some paintings I've actually heard of. A Picasso perhaps, a selection of Turners, a Bacon or two, a little Blake… no, nothing. There was no art, only propaganda masquerading as art.

Where has it all gone?