(Last Updated on )
I awoke this morning to the sound of rain on my window. This is a pleasing, musical sound and although it’s vaguely annoying to work during sunny days and find it raining at the weekend, that’s England for you. Mostly, I was just reassured that my nipples were accurate.
I tweeted yesterday that if my nipples itch, it will rain:
Renewing my subscription to @netmag. Unrelated, my nipples are really itchy where the rings used to be, which means it'll rain.
— Bruce Lawson (@brucel) April 10, 2015
and on Facebook and Twitter there has been a clamour of interest in my nipples (even more than usual). For example:
@brucel (Nedjma here) Woke up to the sound of rain this a.m. and thought of your nipples. Strange day.
— Nedj Donovan (@landoralady) April 11, 2015
But my nipples haven’t always possessed paranormal powers of precipitation prediction. This appeared after two misadventures, one to each nipple. They were the mammarian equivalent to Peter Parker being bitten by a radioactive spider, perhaps.
I actually only have one and a half nipples now. My right nipple is a bit of a disaster. (And, for the avoidance of doubt, I mean my right nipple; it will be on your left when finally you and I are lying, brilliantly exhausted, with your tousled-haired head lying on my my chest, dear reader, as destiny commands us to do.)
In 1982, I was at school and my right nipple was a bit itchy (nothing to do with weather; an early chest hair was forcing its way through). I scratched it vigorously and, because I was a crazy kid with long black-varnished fingernails, my nail split the little head of the nipple in two and yanked a piece of it off. It bled a lot for a while. I won’t post a photograph of it, but to use a London skyline visual simile, if my left nipple is like a perfectly-domed tiny pink St Paul’s Cathedral, my right nipple would be the ugly brutalist splodge of The Barbican.
Seventeen years later, misadventure occurred with my left nipple. I’d had my nipples pierced as I was working up to going the full Prince Albert (or, as an extensively-pierced but malapropism-prone friend calls his, “a King Edward”). I’d gone to a posh piercing place in Soho where they froze it with a spray. As I was walking back to the tube, the numbness suddenly wore off and a wave of pain overwhelmed me; I clutched a lamp-post for support. “Are you OK?” asked a passing policeman. “Yes, I’ve just had my nipples pierced” I explained. He nodded as if he completely understood, and continued on his beat.
But that’s not the story. The second nork-cataclysm happened on a beach in Thailand with my infant daughter asleep in my arms. She must have awoken, looked up and seen the ring gleaming in the sunlight, reached up and hooked her tiny finger right through the left ring, and pulled. And pulled. And pulled.
It really is extraordinary how long a human nipple can be stretched. Obviously I had no ruler with me at the time, and even if I had, I would have had no inclination to take measurements, but I’d estimate my nipple extended to at least 3 inches before I managed to unhook her finger and then retired into the sea to allow the salt water to soothe the damaged flesh.
On my next trip to Soho, I had the rings removed. But since those misadventures, itchy nipples has become the unfailing harbinger of rain.