Cold

Now listen up. I'm not a whinger. Occasionally I get slightly irrate, like when the stupid woman behind the counter at Pret thinks I don't know she's slipping me a regular capp instead of the strong capp I had ordered, please. Or the time that rather wide bottomed man thought I was interested in him, but still felt he needed to turn ME down because my biceps weren't big enough, or once when I was told the bar was closed and my reaction resembled Rebecca De Mornay's toilet tantrum from 'the hand that rocked the cradle'. No, I'm a calm and cool customer.




In fact, I have just returned from a jaunt in Iceland, where, in comparison to me, it was positively tropical. I'm not sure if its my gradual acclimatising to the cooler climes of Grand Bretangne, or if its because the daily turge on the tube is making me narkier than Janice Dickinson with a firecracker up her ass, but I'm not feeling the cold like I used to.

We can wonder for hours why this might be so. It would be terribly self indulgent and narcissistic, so i'll go on.

Could it be that the absence of good coffee has altered the molecular structure of my skin, causing me to wither up, like an old prune (or Janice Dickinson), totally oblivious to any sensory stimulation that doesn't come with an under 18 warning on it?

Or maybe it's just that I've bought so many clothes that I can't feel anything because I'm rugged up to the ahem, hilt.

What I can confirm, is that I seem to have developed, rather disproportionately, a rather splendid additional amount of body hair. Whilst I'm not going to classify myself just yet as a bear cub, or even an otter at that, I do think its time to take a little visit to the little body shop of horrors.

My usual manscaping routine involves a brisk once over with the clipper, military style, to enhance the appearance of what god, and genetically enhanced and hormone heavy chicken fillets have given me. It's rather brutal, and I think at my age, military twink is just a little far fetched for even me. What's next? Hotpants and a whistle?

So I'm taking a step down on the manscaping and keeping my lovely hirsuitedness to a level that befits a gentleman of my age, and refinement. At least at the next fancy dress I go to I can just go as the Sasquatch, or Chewbacca, or anything created by Jim Henson.

And at least I will not be cold.