February 20th

Today, feeling rather guilty about not having done it sooner, I bundled up some clothes and visited Doris' shop in Hammersmith. All the clothes she'd given me I'd laundered and packed, along with some new things that I aquired especially. I'm doing alright for myself wardrobe-wise these days, and I feel that someone else should get the use of the bits she'd kindly gifted to me a month or so ago.

She seemed genuinely pleased to see me, and said it had been many years since a handsome young man had brought her flowers. I got a little upset by this, so she made me a cup of tea and we had a long chat, during which I just spilled out all sorts of things. I'm sure I wasn't always so emotional, things just really get to me these days. I felt like such a fool, venting my innermost to someone who's almost a perfect stranger, but it was rather cathartic and she assured me that it wasn't uncommon. All of 'her boys' go through tough times and while there isn't much she can do to help, she's always there to listen. Gives her something to do since she lost her husband, she said. Such a sad image.

February 21st

I saw Fat Man today.

He was one of the guards at Larkhill. I didn't see much of him during my stay, only in the first couple of weeks before I was moved to the medical section. But it was undoubtedly him, dressed in a Securicor uniform sitting in a van looking bored as he waited for his colleague to return from whatever he was collecting or delivering to the post office. My post office, just a couple of streets away from the guest house.

My gut reaction was to drag him out of the van and beat the shit out of him right there in the street. In fact, it took all of my willpower to resist the urge. Use your fucking brain V, you don't start a fight with an armed security guard in broad daylight on a busy street.

Subtlety is key. I know where he works now. I can find him if I want to. Do I want to? I've been thinking about it ever since this afternoon and the answer is yes. I don't know what hurting him will accomplish, but the fact that he's alive and happily leading a normal life while so many people are dead, while I am scrabbling around in the scraps of society, while they're doing god knows what with all that medical research… it's just not right.

February 22nd

Now don't laugh dear diary, but my latest passion is juggling. Amongst my literary haul the other night was 'The Art Of Juggling' by Ken Benge. I felt oddly drawn to it, and the early chapters really didn't offer me anything I didn't already know – so I'm hypothesizing that I've actually studied this book in my past life.

If I didn't, then I'm just absurdly talented at juggling, because within a couple of hours I was well into the 'advanced' chapter and deftly tossing five balls. I started with oranges actually, but have since acquired myself a couple of sets of proper beanbag juggling balls. They're easier to handle than the fruit and I've managed to add a sixth ball with a fair degree of success.

The world record stands at twelve balls for twelve catches so I've got some way to go before I can make a career from my juggling genius, but I'm enjoying myself immensely and can justify it as good physical therapy too!

February 23rd

Do I want my memory to come back? The more time that passes, the more I'm not bothered if it does or not. Veering towards not wanting it to. The prospect of waking up as a different person is very odd. I'm not the same person physically, why should I be the same person mentally?

What if I were married? Would I return to her? I couldn't force this body upon anyone.

What of my mutations? Without exception, they are beneficial and to lose any of them would be like losing one of the five main senses.

I'd like to remember things as a child, it seems to be such a profound part of people's lives. But the thing is, if my memory came back, the old me and the new me would collide, creating a new person that I have yet to meet. And that's an extremely scary prospect.

February 24th

Forgive me, dear diary, if I'm a bit fuzzy tonight. I awoke this morning to my face throbbing, hurting so much more than normal. Another flare up, like the one I had in hospital. I prised the mask off, made difficult by my poor swollen nose being almost stuck in its indentation, and immediately sought relief from a cold washcloth, to little effect. Delving into my stash of painkillers, I took far too many and chased them down with half a bottle of Glenfiddich.

It must have had the desired effect, as I just awoke on the floor and my head feels as though a bear has shat in it. The face still hurts, but it seems my amateur pharmacology has taken the edge off somewhat. I can't get the mask back on though… if the swelling hasn't subsided by tomorrow I think I'll have to go and get more steroid injections.

February 25th

If you ever need to become invisible it seems that all you need to do is stand on a street corner selling the Big Issue. I thought I had it bad, but at least people acknowledge my existence by quickly getting out of my way.

I always buy a copy. I know how it feels to be homeless, even if it was only for a few nights. Though technically, a guest house isn't exactly 'home', I've got a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in because I kicked my principles aside and started stealing. I've got immense respect for anyone who's trying to get themselves back on their feet within the confines of the law – they are better men than me.

It's also pleasant to have a conversation with another human. Strange how my fellow rejects from society seem more inclined to accept me as I am than the 'normal' people are. Maybe it's just because I buy a magazine, don't ask for change and am generous with my cigarettes. Or maybe non-judgemental interaction is as much a novelty for them as it is for me, and they're quite happy to stand and chat with a man in a strange mask.

February 26th

I've become an excellent burglar.

I'm quick and I'm quiet. No-one ever manages to creep up on me, and if they did, I'm confident that could deal with them without even breaking a sweat.

I leave no fingerprints. No incriminating hairs or skin cells to be questioned for their DNA secrets.

I get in, I get what I need, I get out. No-one sees me, no-one hears me. No problem.

February 27th

The news is full of talk about an unknown virus that's hit a dozen or so kids from a school in the centre of town. Hopefully it's just another bird flu type scare like we had last month.

I'm thinking about looking for a flat. Enough money is being made from my shopping trips that I should be able to afford the rent on somewhere small, and I have a real longing for a bathtub. Maybe with a bit more room I could start some kind of legitimate business and earn some honest money. Mail order something or other, become a take away food critic, something stupid like that. I must be good at something more useful than juggling, darts and reading quickly, I just wish I could remember what it is.

Oh yes, almost forgot. Seven balls. I rule.

February 28th

I went for a follow up appointment at the hospital today.

They were pleased with the progress the grafts have made, impressed by the range of motion I've managed to regain. Whilst I still get twinges and stiffness here and there, I can move almost as I could before the fire.

I removed the mask in the company of other people for the first time in many weeks. They took it from me to make a few adjustments and it felt like losing a limb. I can't believe how attached to it I have become, after only a month of wear

"Will this grow back?" I asked, pointing to my nostrils, where the burn has destroyed some of the cartilage.

"No," said one of the burn staff. "But there is surgery we can do." I am lucky, she told me. The burns across my nose are very deep.

"But you still have the bridge of your nose," she said. "Some people -- it burns off completely."

I'm glad my eyes didn't get burned. Glad I had the chance to protect them.

In the lift on the way down from the burn floor, a slender young woman gave me a long, unflinching look.

"When were you burned?" she asked. The tip of a ropelike scar clawed along her clavicle, just visible beneath her open collar.

"Four months ago," I mumbled.

"Mine was a year ago," she said. "You should see my friend. Her face was just like yours. She had that mask and everything, and she looks so great."

Her voice was soft, but insistent. It was as though there was no one else in the elevator, as though she had a lot she wanted to say, and only eight floors to go.

"They just fixed her nose because one of her nostrils was crooked,"

"Mine is too," I said. I was actually looking at her, oblivious to the rest of the people pressed with their backs against the elevator walls.

"I think you look good," she said as the elevator doors slide open.

I actually held my head up and smiled. Not that she could see my grin.

That's it for now folks – I won't say it's finished cos I may well continue the diary when I get a chance to do so, but the daily postings are over for now. Please do review!