Introducing My Giant Spot

May I introduce you to my giant spot? It sits in the middle of my forehead and, upon closer inspection, seems to consist of a little stream, some flowers and a tree. Might it be a beauty spot? Groan.

On a more serious note, it appeared as a tiny dot several years ago and as such was easy to ignore. However, it grows bigger and bigger and becomes redder and redder. If it’s worth inspecting the prostate and keeping an eye on the weighing scales, it must be prurient to inspect a giant lump perhaps chewing its way into the brain.

First, the good news. Dr Internet can be used for such things, and a simple Google search shows this to be a cherry angioma; a small, harmless red or purple skin growth caused by a cluster of tiny blood vessels. They’re common – and at this point insult is added to injury – with age.

If it was somewhere else – beneath a hairline, under the clothes – it wouldn’t matter, but with it being in the middle of my forehead, people tend to talk to it rather than to me.

Customer’s eyes raised to the forehead, ‘Where’s the dog food?’

‘At the other entrance, up the ramp and on the left-hand side.’

Eyes still raised, ‘Erm, sorry?’

Plus, I don’t want to be a big wuss, but it is unsightly, and has now grown spider’s legs as affected blood vessels radiate from it.

Best be on the safe side; I shall have it looked at. My GP has an online triage which consists of a confusing mass of questions, most of which are irrelevant. After submitting the form, they don’t contact you; therefore the private sector beckons. One such phisician practices nearby, and he specialises in ‘aesthetics and minor surgery’.

Compared with the NHS, booking an appointment is easy. Go to the website, click on ‘Book’, click on ‘Consultations’. A calendar shows red, yellow or green days depending on availability. Select a green or yellow date and choose a time.

On the other side of the argument, it’s £95 for 15 minutes. If, like myself, you visit the doctor once every 10 years, does it matter?

I booked a slot and paid, cycled down to the clinic, tied up my bike, and sat in the waiting room chatting to the nurse, who I see at church. Yes, in my modest Debatable Lands settlement, we all know each other – for the time being. Suffice it to say rapid changes are afoot. If I wait another 10 years until an appointment, I suspect the medic will cure my aching back (or whatever) by surrounding me with chicken bones and doing a dance.

Come to think of it, at the present rate of spidery mutation, the power dynamic might have reversed – massive spot wants ugly face removed.

Back in the present day, the doctor confirmed a cherry angioma, but there the good news ended. It had grown too big and formed a hardened top; therefore couldn’t be removed with a laser beam. That would take the redness away, but a lump would remain.

Therefore he would remove it by surgery.

A crescent-shaped incision above, another below. Peel the eye-shaped tissue containing the angioma from my skull, clamp the remaining skin together and stitch up. After a couple of months, the scar tissue will turn white and look like a furrow across the brow.

Hold on a minute. Now well north of my somewhat limited courage, I could only think of one question.

‘Of course I use anaesthetic,’ he replied, ‘it isn’t the 17th century. Imagine you’re at the dentist’s.’

Just because I haven’t been to the doctor’s for ten years doesn’t mean I haven’t been to the dentist. Long-suffering readers will be aware of the trouble I had with my teeth during the pandemic.

May I quote from the Question Time Review of 30th April 2021?

‘Last week’s QT Review proved from first principles that the National Health Service isn’t the best in the world as your humble reviewer couldn’t find an NHS dentist. Be careful what you wish for. The phone rang on Tuesday evening delivering a double blow, both proving me wrong and allowing for painful revenge. If Puffins are in the habit of referring to public sector workers as ‘fat’, ‘bone idle’, ‘useless’ and ‘overpaid’, bear in mind that one day you may be laid immobile before them with your mouth wide open while they stand nearby with needles and knives.

‘Likewise, the Scots are a canny but capricious race, capable of passing dentistry exams while simultaneously being labelled as ‘racists’, ‘bigots’, ‘Nazis’, ‘scroungers’, ‘drunks’ and ‘druggies’. What has been said cannot be unsaid, but at least you can pretend that you never said it in the first place. The written word, however, sets itself in stone, especially through the document of record that is Question Time Review.’

Suffice to say, my Scottish dentist set to work on a foot-long root. The nerve was as thick as an Irish labourer’s forearm and attached to every bone and muscle in my body. What was most unexpected was the noises. It sounded as though someone was smashing my teeth into pieces and pulling the bits out of my head, which, come to think of it, they were.

Hence, comparing my spot to a troublesome tooth did nothing to encourage me to part with the required £350. Rather, after citing cowardice, I was out of there and pedalling so furiously I was back in my front room even before the 15 minutes were up.

The downside of us all knowing each other in this locale is that I can recall my doctor from when we were at school. Imagining an obstreperous 12-year-old after me with a scalpel in each hand hurried me home.

No matter. A man does well to have a daughter, and she got busy with the makeup. My own attempt – concealer put on with a trowel – wasn’t great:

The more experienced hand covered the spider’s legs with something (blusher?) before coating the whole forehead in something else and topping off the spot with something else again.

From the eyebrows up, would I now pass for a Kardashian?

So much for me, Dr Internet, Dr Aesthetics and my daughter – what do you think? Should it stay or should it go? Leave well alone? Conceal? Have surgery? Let me know below the line.
 

© Always Worth Saying 2026