Art Garfunkel hair controlled by Nicky. I've been going to her for about eight or nine years now and she's never put a scissor wrong. Because we know each other quite well I get the feeling that I go there for a chat, and the hair is a pretext. I liked her from the moment I walked in and she pointed at my head and said "hair bear bunch". She was only 19 at the time and I feel like I've seen her grow up. Funny how you find yourself telling your hairdresser so much -- must be the fact they're grooming you that lulls you into feeling of ape-like security.
Managed two blubbery swims over the weekend. Maybe it's the war business, but there seems to be a current of madness in quite ordinary people at the moment. Even in the pool people were being agressive and strange. One man looked like he wanted to murder me simply because I asked him to step aside so I could use the mirror to apply the necessary hair wax to my fine new bedhead.
Zoomed home on bicycle after swim on Sunday, pausing to steal bay leaves from a neighbour's garden and got into lengthy conversation with nice people from next door who were struggling with their plants in the garden. Turns out Janet was on the peace march too, but Phil declined having some rugby to watch. My mother and Mase came around and I cooked a big chicken. Made schoolboy error of drinking too much wine as I cooked and it was only hours later I discovered cold and unappetising spinach on the side where I'd left it rather than simply serve it with the rest of the food.
Even Mase, who is an ex US marine has no time for Bush. Otherwise had fun with my family. Then snuck out as Mrs Kenny slept on the sofa and had a beer with my pal Martin in the Ship at Mortlake which fine pub though it is was a bit morgue-like on a Sunday. Then home to watch a programme about Phillip Pulman and his dark materials trilogy. He is probably the most important writer in Britain today I'd say.
Unaccountably I found myself eating chocolates and chicken sandwitches at midnight. This has to stop.
Managed two blubbery swims over the weekend. Maybe it's the war business, but there seems to be a current of madness in quite ordinary people at the moment. Even in the pool people were being agressive and strange. One man looked like he wanted to murder me simply because I asked him to step aside so I could use the mirror to apply the necessary hair wax to my fine new bedhead.
Zoomed home on bicycle after swim on Sunday, pausing to steal bay leaves from a neighbour's garden and got into lengthy conversation with nice people from next door who were struggling with their plants in the garden. Turns out Janet was on the peace march too, but Phil declined having some rugby to watch. My mother and Mase came around and I cooked a big chicken. Made schoolboy error of drinking too much wine as I cooked and it was only hours later I discovered cold and unappetising spinach on the side where I'd left it rather than simply serve it with the rest of the food.
Even Mase, who is an ex US marine has no time for Bush. Otherwise had fun with my family. Then snuck out as Mrs Kenny slept on the sofa and had a beer with my pal Martin in the Ship at Mortlake which fine pub though it is was a bit morgue-like on a Sunday. Then home to watch a programme about Phillip Pulman and his dark materials trilogy. He is probably the most important writer in Britain today I'd say.
Unaccountably I found myself eating chocolates and chicken sandwitches at midnight. This has to stop.
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