‘What’s that thing on your face?’ my five year old asked, stroking my jaw.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it can be called a mole or a beauty spot, whichever you prefer.’
‘A beauty spot,’ she said screwing up her face.
‘I wish you didn’t have it,’ she added, touching it like it was a plague sore. ‘How do you get rid of it?’
I frowned. ‘Don’t you like it?’ I asked.
‘I wish you didn’t have it. How can it be gone?’ she replied.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘someone would have to cut it off with a knife.’
She passed, pondering this rather drastic option.
‘Don’t worry mummy. I’d be right beside you when they chop you. I would hold your hand.’