As a child I was left out in the rain and became afflicted with rust. A trail of red flakes would swirl behind me wherever I went. Walking became a challenge, and my limbs squeaked so loudly I was banned from the town library and quickly became illiterate. For these and other reasons I was ostracised by the other children. One day I was approached by a man who offered me a small can of oil at a very reasonable introductory price. For the first time in my short life I was filled with the type of joy that arises from the temporary cessation of suffering before you realise that it is only temporary. Allowed back in the library, I taught myself to read again. In the botany section I found books that showed me how to press oils from plants that grew wild in the nearby countryside, thus freeing myself from the oil-pushers. From the hobbies section I learned conjuring tricks with coins and cards, with which to win back the approval of the other children. Yet even now, in middle age, I must remain alert. I carry an umbrella at all times. I douse myself daily with wild plant oils. If, on standing, I find rust-flakes on my chair, I scoop them up in a tissue and bury them at the bottom of the waste-paper bin. If a shriek emerges from an errant joint, I cover the sound with a cough. There are nights when I pace the psychology section of the library, pulling out books at random, looking for I don’t quite know what as the memory of that first hit of street oil swirls behind me like a trail of red dust.