20 June 2001 - DISEASE SPECIALIST
I've got a new job curing exotic illnesses. I travel around town in my little van, a tannoy atop it broadcasting my services ("Stop me and pay me £5.50 to prick your buboes"), while waving a big flag bearing a stereogram of a viral helix.
Last night I was summoned to a tower block on the bad side of town, where I scraped pus from the jaw of an infected pensioner.
He couldn't thank me enough, and immediately set about using his newly cured jaw to bite a table.
21 June 2001 - DISEASE SPECIALIST
It's a lot of fun having a job curing exotic illnesses. However, I appear to have contracted several of these illnesses myself.
My entire left arm is covered in purple scabs, that – when poked – emit a pungent fluid that smells a little bit like mint. Meanwhile… on my right arm… the kin is covered in grey blemishes, topped with putrid sores.
Worst of all, however, is my head, which has shrunk down to the size of a twenty pence piece, and broken off.