My thighs know polyester even if the label says 100% cotton. I swear that there are unnatural fibres in these trousers of mine. Perhaps even something ungodly. It teaches me to buy pants on a whim. I’m enduring a terrible day here in hot sweaty Manchester. My skin can’t cope and the pain of the chafing is enough to give me religious visions. I swear I saw Saint Sylvester nearly getting clipped by a tram on the road outside the art gallery. Soon I’ll be heading for lunch in search of a shop that sells ointments and balms. There must be something to extinguish the fire that’s burning below my beltline.