'The average person sheds 1.5 lbs of dead skin each year,' I say to Geoff as we sit together at the café window seat. 'That's 35,000 skin cells every hour.'
'Fascinating,' says Geoff, biting into the almond pastry I've just bought him.
'And given that 75% of household dust is made up of human skin cells, of which we inhale approximately 20% ....'
Geoff rolls his eyes.
'By the end of our lives we're just one big bag of dead skin.'
'Sounds about right to me,' says Geoff.
It's a relief to be writing about something other than the Mind for the website, but it does mean that I've been living and breathing (quite literally, it seems) human skin for five days now. The upside is that this week's 'Skin Special' has furnished me with all sorts of fascinating facts; we replace our skin 1000 times during the average lifetime; when stretched to full capacity a grown up's skin measures 21 square feet, and in hot weather it can excrete up to 3 gallons of sweat a day. The downside is that focusing so much on skin means that my own epidermis is never far from my head (which technically, I suppose is always going to be the case).
Not only have I been obsessing about my Psoriasis vulgaris, but I've found myself dwelling on Dede the Indonesian fisherman, aka Half man Half tree, and wondering how he's getting on after his operation to remove the growths. When I googled him, I discovered that unfortunately the giant carbuncles which covered his limbs and torso, have begun to grow back. While this makes me feel pretty depressed, Dede seems as chipper as ever, declaring to the world how he's looking for another wife. I'm in awe of people like Dede.
'So,' says Geoff, 'want to hear my good news?'
I nod eagerly. The words 'Geoff' and 'good news' are not usually found in the same sentence.
'The Lunch and Leisure club called this morning to ask if I want to read for their members a couple of times a week. They're going to pay me - not just in Lancashire hot pot but in real money!'
'Brilliant,' I say, 'any ideas what sort of authors they'll want?'
'Brett Easton Ellis, Chuck Palahniuk, that sort of stuff,' Geoff chuckles and for one deliciously surreal moment I think he's being serious.
'Are you eating that?' Geoff jabs a finger at my half-eaten pastry.
I shake my head. This morning's breakfast - two fried eggs, beans, toast and a mountain of melted Cathedral City, courtesy of Geoff, is still swelling in my stomach like a big ball of dough.
'Nice one,' says Geoff shoving the pastry whole into his mouth and eliciting a cascade of crumbs which flutter to the floor beneath our feet. We both stare at the yellow papery flakes for a few seconds before Geoff looks up, points to my left elbow and grins. 'You've almost cracked your hourly quota.'
To be continued next Friday...