I love the smell of hair gel in the morning...

The sound of typing to my right as Furtle lists her extraneous CDs and the blast of Papa Roach (one of them) from the other room tells me that it must be Sunday afternoon. Actually, the Papa Roach isn't as bad as I was led to believe, but there aren't enough good tracks between the hard-rock-rap stylee things to make it worth holding on to in my opinion. I shall retaliate with a little Hammerfall - Furtle is not entirely aware that I have got the odd hard heavy album in my collection.

Another indication that it is Sunday is the fact that we have just applied the clippers to my old melon. Either what few wisps I have left are now made of wire, or the clippers are not the mighty shears they were when I bought them about 18 months ago. I fancy that I shall have to strip them down like an automatic and oil and clean them properly. I suppose that if I can become quick and proficient enough I could then do it with a blind fold.

Apocalypse Now meets Shampoo.

I love the smell of hair gel in the morning...

The sound of typing to my right as Furtle lists her extraneous CDs and the blast of Papa Roach (one of them) from the other room tells me that it must be Sunday afternoon. Actually, the Papa Roach isn't as bad as I was led to believe, but there aren't enough good tracks between the hard-rock-rap stylee things to make it worth holding on to in my opinion. I shall retaliate with a little Hammerfall - Furtle is not entirely aware that I have got the odd hard heavy album in my collection.

Another indication that it is Sunday is the fact that we have just applied the clippers to my old melon. Either what few wisps I have left are now made of wire, or the clippers are not the mighty shears they were when I bought them about 18 months ago. I fancy that I shall have to strip them down like an automatic and oil and clean them properly. I suppose that if I can become quick and proficient enough I could then do it with a blind fold.

Apocalypse Now meets Shampoo.

I say!

I say!

Sunday night

It must be Sunday evening. I have ironed my shirts for the week; that's one sign.The other sign is largely confined to wondering what happened to the two days since Friday night and why I still feel so tired.

Next weekend is GASP, where a bunch of us disappear off for a long weekend and have an early Christmas the way we want it and not the way our well-meaning families engineer it. That means a four day weekend, which will be very welcome. I expect that work for the next four days will be tiresome beyond belief. Now the consultation is out there, we will have a couple of days to fill the sandbags, dig the trenches and unroll the barbed wire. After that it will be a case of sitting under the desk, wearing a tin hat and eating bully beef direct from the can with a bayonet. This being the Athenaeum Club, of course we have a WW2 stylee Tin Hat¹.



Note the fine collection of chins not quite hidden by increasingly grey beard. And the grandad shirt. Who do you think you're kidding, Mr Hitler?


¹It's plastic of course, but even close up it looks real.

Sunday night

It must be Sunday evening. I have ironed my shirts for the week; that's one sign.The other sign is largely confined to wondering what happened to the two days since Friday night and why I still feel so tired.

Next weekend is GASP, where a bunch of us disappear off for a long weekend and have an early Christmas the way we want it and not the way our well-meaning families engineer it. That means a four day weekend, which will be very welcome. I expect that work for the next four days will be tiresome beyond belief. Now the consultation is out there, we will have a couple of days to fill the sandbags, dig the trenches and unroll the barbed wire. After that it will be a case of sitting under the desk, wearing a tin hat and eating bully beef direct from the can with a bayonet. This being the Athenaeum Club, of course we have a WW2 stylee Tin Hat¹.



Note the fine collection of chins not quite hidden by increasingly grey beard. And the grandad shirt. Who do you think you're kidding, Mr Hitler?


¹It's plastic of course, but even close up it looks real.