“In the light of day, locked behind a toilet door, the enormous throbbing sore had produced a hat of pus. I felt it pop like a grape in my pants as I sat down to another meal of potato and sausage. It was ringed with a blue line clear as if drawn with a pencil. Once I saw its seeping pus matted into my pubic hair. And the next time I wrapped the sore in a bandage. It was unbearably itchy and clammy inside this wrapping. And useless-a small spot of yellow brown muck had soon stained it through. When I eventually unwrapped it, the bandage clung like paper to a sticky toffee. I bit the leather of my belt to stop me yelling out. I knew what this angry pustule on my penis was.”
Andrea Levy, “Small Island”, 2003.
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