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Picture the scene.
The alarm goes off at Eight O' Clock, because I have no work today, so I give myself an extra hour in bed. I wake knowing that not only do I have nothing to do today, but that my partner, Heather is planning to go into town shopping this morning, so I will also have the entire place to myself all morning. I lie there contemplating a nice, lazy hot shower, followed by a leisurely, comfortable shave. What bliss!
I get up, Heather is already up and dressed. Downstairs I boil the kettle, and fill my new shaving scuttle from Steve at Woodhead Pottery, make a coffee, and look out of the kitchen window, at a bright, clean February morning. All is right with the world.
"See you later" Calls Heather, blowing me a kiss as she disappears out the front door.
Mornings don't get any better than this.
I wander back upstairs, put the hot scuttle on the bathroom window sill, and fill the sink with hot water. I look through my stash of soaps, and select the little green Proraso, a nice menthol hit, followed by a good, health splash of Floid Amber to finish. Sounds good to me. I put a new blade in the Gillette slim adjustable which has just arrived from Simmo, and drop my Vulfix 404 into the hot water. All is going great.
I strip off and slide into the shower.
Then it all starts to go wrong.
The telephone rings, I can hear it ringing downstairs. I decide to ignore it, then think it might be important, so reach up to switch off the water, somehow the metal shower head decides to jump out of its holder, fall down, and hit me in the face.
I splodge downstairs and answer the call. It's my 20 year old daughter, who explains she's just split up with her boyfriend, that all men are untrustworthy liars and cheats (except you Dad, of course), and she wants to move back in. Oh no!
I try and persuade her to give the relationship another chance, but she's not having any of it. Fifteen minutes later I go back upstairs, and make a mental note to clear all the junk out my daughter's old bedroom.
I dry off and swirl my brush through the cool Proraso, it feels good. I lather up, luxurious, thick and white soap covers the southern hemisphere of my head. I pick up my new razor and the telephone rings again.
I put down the razor, go back down stairs and answer the call. It's my 19 year old Gothic son and heir, who explains that he wants to go to a heavy metal concert in Germany, and can he "borrow" only £200. He explains and promises by all the gods of the universe that he will pay me back, this time. I have a thirty minute conversation with him about the value of money, but he's having none of it. I go back up stairs £200 lighter. The morning is starting to lose it's golden glister.
Back upstairs the lather on my face has now turned into semi-skimmed milk, and the water in the sink is cold. So I wash off the lather, re-fill the sink and start again.
I am half way through the first pass when the doorbell rings.
"Sorry to bother you, but we're in the area and we're introducing the local people to a special offer from Staybrite, and I was wondering..."
"Is this about double glazing?"
"Well, yes..."
"I don't want any."
I close the door and go back upstairs, and finish the first pass. I am mighty pleased with my new adjustable, and make a mental note to thank Simmo.
I soap up for the second pass and I can hear the front door slam. There is a crashing up the stairs. Heather stands in the doorway with her arms folded, and gives me that look.
Remain calm.
"Why didn't you tell me the tax on my car was out of date?" She demands. "You've really got to get a grip and be more on top of this sort of thing. The traffic warden said he'll let me off this time, but if he sees the car in town again, and it's still not taxed, he'll give me a ticket!"
I think about explaining to my good lady, that as it is her car, which I never drive, and she bought with her own money from her own job, it might not be unreasonable to suggest she also taxes the damn thing when it becomes due. But one look at her face tells me she isn't in the mood for a calm, reasoned debate about the responsibilities of car ownership. So I say nothing.
I finish my ten minute shave nearly an hour after I started it, and consider going back to bed and starting all over again.
And it's only Monday!
The alarm goes off at Eight O' Clock, because I have no work today, so I give myself an extra hour in bed. I wake knowing that not only do I have nothing to do today, but that my partner, Heather is planning to go into town shopping this morning, so I will also have the entire place to myself all morning. I lie there contemplating a nice, lazy hot shower, followed by a leisurely, comfortable shave. What bliss!
I get up, Heather is already up and dressed. Downstairs I boil the kettle, and fill my new shaving scuttle from Steve at Woodhead Pottery, make a coffee, and look out of the kitchen window, at a bright, clean February morning. All is right with the world.
"See you later" Calls Heather, blowing me a kiss as she disappears out the front door.
Mornings don't get any better than this.
I wander back upstairs, put the hot scuttle on the bathroom window sill, and fill the sink with hot water. I look through my stash of soaps, and select the little green Proraso, a nice menthol hit, followed by a good, health splash of Floid Amber to finish. Sounds good to me. I put a new blade in the Gillette slim adjustable which has just arrived from Simmo, and drop my Vulfix 404 into the hot water. All is going great.
I strip off and slide into the shower.
Then it all starts to go wrong.
The telephone rings, I can hear it ringing downstairs. I decide to ignore it, then think it might be important, so reach up to switch off the water, somehow the metal shower head decides to jump out of its holder, fall down, and hit me in the face.
I splodge downstairs and answer the call. It's my 20 year old daughter, who explains she's just split up with her boyfriend, that all men are untrustworthy liars and cheats (except you Dad, of course), and she wants to move back in. Oh no!
I try and persuade her to give the relationship another chance, but she's not having any of it. Fifteen minutes later I go back upstairs, and make a mental note to clear all the junk out my daughter's old bedroom.
I dry off and swirl my brush through the cool Proraso, it feels good. I lather up, luxurious, thick and white soap covers the southern hemisphere of my head. I pick up my new razor and the telephone rings again.
I put down the razor, go back down stairs and answer the call. It's my 19 year old Gothic son and heir, who explains that he wants to go to a heavy metal concert in Germany, and can he "borrow" only £200. He explains and promises by all the gods of the universe that he will pay me back, this time. I have a thirty minute conversation with him about the value of money, but he's having none of it. I go back up stairs £200 lighter. The morning is starting to lose it's golden glister.
Back upstairs the lather on my face has now turned into semi-skimmed milk, and the water in the sink is cold. So I wash off the lather, re-fill the sink and start again.
I am half way through the first pass when the doorbell rings.
"Sorry to bother you, but we're in the area and we're introducing the local people to a special offer from Staybrite, and I was wondering..."
"Is this about double glazing?"
"Well, yes..."
"I don't want any."
I close the door and go back upstairs, and finish the first pass. I am mighty pleased with my new adjustable, and make a mental note to thank Simmo.
I soap up for the second pass and I can hear the front door slam. There is a crashing up the stairs. Heather stands in the doorway with her arms folded, and gives me that look.
Remain calm.
"Why didn't you tell me the tax on my car was out of date?" She demands. "You've really got to get a grip and be more on top of this sort of thing. The traffic warden said he'll let me off this time, but if he sees the car in town again, and it's still not taxed, he'll give me a ticket!"
I think about explaining to my good lady, that as it is her car, which I never drive, and she bought with her own money from her own job, it might not be unreasonable to suggest she also taxes the damn thing when it becomes due. But one look at her face tells me she isn't in the mood for a calm, reasoned debate about the responsibilities of car ownership. So I say nothing.
I finish my ten minute shave nearly an hour after I started it, and consider going back to bed and starting all over again.
And it's only Monday!
