You look at me as if you know me.

You should.

I was the boy in series four whose finger became trapped in the Jenga tower.
I was the troubled teenager in series nine bitten by the rabid stoat.
I was the aging footballer in series fifteen with the fractured perm.
I was the middle-aged supermarket manager in series twenty-two crushed under cereal packets.
I was the pensioner in series twenty-seven who swallowed his grand-daughter’s lego brick.

But you can never quite place me.

For I am the extra you watch but never see.
The one you know but don’t know.
I exist at the back of your mind, at the edge of your consciousness,
on the tip of your tongue.

I am the casualty.