Dear Holly, Last weekend I was on a night out with the girls to celebrate my 36th birthday. Clad arse to tit in neon lycra, I must have cast a highly alluring shadow across the dancefloor as I limboed to Britney Spears, because next thing I knew, I was on all fours behind a skip being pummelled vigorously from behind by some random teenage drunkard. Hardly noticing that I was kneeling in a spilt cocktail of urine and vomit, I panted like a spaniel with heatstroke as he shot his load across my back and staggered away. The problem is that since this brief encounter, I've developed a rather embarrassing condition whereby my clacker is itchier than a vagrant's arsehole. Can you suggest why this might be? Sue Penzance
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