Wart's going on for our Steve? He's got to get this off his chest

Nothing screams of middle-age quite like getting a wart.

- Steve Canavan

Three weeks ago it wasn't there but at some point - as though it had arrived by bus one rainy Tuesday afternoon and alighted on my chest - it suddenly appeared and now, like a squatter in a derelict house, it is refusing to go anywhere.

Now given Mrs Canavan is the only other human who ever sees my chest and like most couples in long-term relationships we aren't attracted to each other in any way (the most aroused I get is when she brings me a cup of cocoa), I am not bothered by its unsightly nature.

In some ways, I like my wart. It's nice to have a companion and I've taken to calling him Bob and having conversations of an evening ("Hey Bob, what you up to?" I'll ask, and then I'll answer on his behalf, "Just chilling, taking It easy." Me, "Ok, I'll leave you to it but I'll give you a nudge when Match of the Day starts - Man City play Chelsea.")

But when I went on holiday recently, I became less fond of Bob - mainly because I became very aware of him and very self-conscious.

We went to Majorca. There was a swimming pool, it was hot, and thus I spent a lot of time - prepare yourself ladies - with my top off.

Now I've not got a great body to start witha former girlfriend once described it as like looking at a derelict block of flats - so add into the equation a large wart protruding from it and it made it difficult to walk around feeling anything other than embarrassed and slightly ashamed.