I was shrunk yesterday by my GP. I had come in with a stack of printouts from the Daily Mail and WebMD about how eating trifle was giving me cancer. My little toes hurt and I thought it could possibly be gout or a rare disease.

My GP wasn’t having any of this. He pressed one button on his keyboard and he shrunk me to the size of a night out in Pewsey.


It took me three weeks to get back home. I had a run in with a gang of thuggish leaves. Later, I had to chew a leg off when I got entombed in a mound of Airwaves Peppermint chewing gum. For someone at the height of one inch and one-eighths, this was the equivalent of a napalm shower.

I got a lift off a cat the rest of the way. The cat told me he could get me back faster if he took a shortcut. I meowed in agreement that this was the right course of action. Instead I ended up travelling around the more miserable backroads of my council estate. The cat had the balls to add an automatic gratuity to the fare, the cheeky bastard.

Now I had to tackle opening my front door.

I called my flatmate, but he was out. I scaled a nearby twig, and I crawled through the letterbox. I got a bit of rough bristle in the eye and the door flap slapped shut on my back, propelling me into the hallway. I broke my fall landing face first into a picture of a pepperoni pizza, printed on a pile of takeaway leaflets.


I posted myself on holiday to Spain once. I punched some holes through the cardboard box for air circulation, and I packed half a Fruit Pastel and two grains of a HobNob in case I got peckish. Unfortunately I was mis-delivered to a meatpacking warehouse in Romford.

Despite all this, being the height of a soap dispenser isn’t all bad. My doctor has certainly cured me. Now I don’t feel like I have cancer or flu or painful toes at all, mostly because the pain has gotten smaller. A very effective treatment.

Now I know why the NHS prioritises shrinking budgets.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.