They abandoned me. How could they do this to me? A wife and two daughters left me to stew in my own mess over the Easter weekend. Sharon and Helen buggered off to New York for retail therapy and Rachel, faced with the prospect of five days with her old man, understandably headed back to London to party with her mates. When faced with such loneliness a man needs a project and so I set myself the task of growing a beard. I have started this project several times before but never satisfactorily completed it. At precisely what stage does stubble become a proper beard? I still don't know the answer to this one because yesterday evening I shaved the mess off again. I like the first week of the process during which you think you look like Clint Eastwood in his spaghetti western days. Old women cross the road to avoid you and you feel vaguely hard. This gives way to an itchy phase during which you keep testing the softening bristles with your tongue and eventually get totally pissed off with it. I have never got much further than this, unless you count my fourth term at university (the first time round) when I think I went six weeks sporting atrocious bum-fluff. My old mate Peter (where are you now Pete - we had some good times) Mincher came down to London to stay with me (football international I expect) and told me I looked like a twat. I shaved it off. In my dotage maybe I will do the thing properly one day. A man is nothing without ambition.
No comments:
Post a Comment