 About two years ago we went to Treviso. It was late and dark and it was difficult to find the clinic. We paid three thousand Euros and then I was led to a small room where a nurse put drops in my eyes and asked if I had brought some sunglasses. I had. We waited for five minutes. There was another patient, a woman who was waiting too, but I was first. Another nurse came along and asked me to come into a large cold room, with radiation warnings on the doors and a bed and some machinery from Flash Gordon.
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 I could never grow a proper beard when I was in my early twenties. Or more accurately I couldn't grow a proper mustache. I looked Amish. I contented myself with a Goatee and flattered myself with Tom Waits comparisons. I also wore an electric blue leather jacket. I am not proud.
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AuthorJohn Bleasdale is a writer. His work has appeared in The Guardian, The Independent, Il Manifesto, as well as CineVue.Com and theStudioExec.com. He has also written a number of plays, screenplays and novels. Archives
March 2019
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