Okay, so I don't look quite as bad as he does, but I'm still walking round looking like a victim of a mugging with a purple and yellow bruise above my left eye. In fact, for the first time in my life, I wish I had been the victim of a mugging, as it is less embarrassing to admit this than to admit that you poked yourself in the eyelid with a sharp fingernail in the night.
When I say I poked myself in the eyelid 'with a sharp fingernail', I ought to make it clear that the fingernail was attached to my finger at the time. I don't want you getting the idea that I keep a little store of sharp fingernails on my bedside table at night (like others keep guns, or kitchen knives) in case of intruders. Imagine. 'Give me back my jewellery, you varmint, or I'll dig this three-inch shard of keratin into your forehead.'
I think I must have been dreaming, though, perhaps another of those Clooney dreams which make me sit up suddenly at three o'clock in the morning, convinced that I'M MARRIED TO GEORGE CLOONEY, I REALLY, REALLY AM and then notice that little bald head beside me sticking out from under the covers and realise it's not true.
You may well think, oh, does she mean she woke up, realised she was sans-Clooney, noticed the bald head, and THEN poked herself in the eye with a fingernail? Like some kind of tortured, disillusioned self-harm?
Well, I guess that would be a totally reasonable response, but, no. It wasn't that.
You may well think, oh, does she mean she woke up, realised she was sans-Clooney, knew that if she was going to send Clooney a picture of herself she would need to make him feel sorry for her before he would take her on, so she poked herself in the eye with a fingernail to make herself look like a needy victim?
Well, that would be reasonable, too, but, no.
You may well think, oh, does she mean she heard somewhere that one thing which Clooney found particularly attractive in a woman was the combination of greying hair, thighs the size of two small continents and a nice little multi-coloured bruise below one eyebrow, so she poked herself in the eye with a fingernail to help complete her transformation into Clooney's dream girl?
Sigh. If only. But, no.
What happened was that I woke up suddenly, and didn't seem to have control of my left arm, because it shot up towards my eye at great speed and that's when I stabbed myself with the fingernail.
And the only thing I can think of is that, while dreaming, I must've thought I was fighting off some of those bloggy rivals of mine who are always leaving me messages to say how they've met Clooney/holidayed with Clooney/married Clooney. I think I was just about to land one of them a mighty punch when I woke up and punched myself instead.
Only it wasn't a punch as I had my fingers outstretched (maybe I was just imitating starfish in my sleep, but that's not half as romantic). Ergo, nail injury. Ergo, bruise.
And, ergo, odd looks from everyone I meet.
Oh well. No change there, then.