After grappling with my conscience I decided to be brave and go anyway in spite of what I looked like. After all, if you are resident in a Hospice you definitely have better things to worry about than my custard topped skin eruptions.

But they didn’t. Every single patient I served, bar one,  made a reference to it. “Is that your unborn twin?” “You should see a doctor about that” and “That had better not be catching!” were just three of the comments my spot got.  As I trundled around it felt as though the spot was pulsing and then I started to think it was glowing in the heat of the day.

The one patient who didn’t immediately remark on my gobstopper sized spot just sat up very straight and widened his eyes. Thinking I’d get in there first (and convinced he would be polite and deny any knowledge of spotzilla) I said, “You look shocked! It’s not my spot is it?” and he answered, “What a whopper!”

I finished my trolley rounds helped myself to a large bowl of jelly and ice cream and ate it sitting on a  bench in the Hospice’s Kindness Garden.