In Competition No. 3288, you were invited to supply a sonnet on an embarrassing ailment. To make space for as many winners as possible, I’ll keep it brief: in an amusing and accomplished entry, the sonnets below nosed ahead of the pack and earn their authors £15.

They flee from me that sometime did me seek
Or make excuse to end our conversation;
They turn away when I begin to speak
Or greet me with a look of consternation.