‘You’ve got a secondary infection,’ said the dermatologist as I walked into his office. No sh*t, Sherlock. I hadn’t said a word myself. I didn’t need to. All the words I needed were written all over my face. In bright red. It was nice to have an acknowledgement that something was badly wrong. I hoped he’d have a miracle for me. A week of antibiotics, then back on the Roaccutane and back to perfect skin in time for Easter. But skin doesn’t work like that.