Woke up this morning with a haiku in my head:
This dismembr’d face
Kept in my deepest pocket
Was not yours to keep
Checked all my pockets but everything seems normal. Must have given it back.
Since Goldie has gone completely deaf, the only way to communicate with her now is through pokes, prods and wild gesticulations.
In fact, the only tried & tested way we can get her to jump on the bed is through a rapid sequence of Sieg Heils.
It’s very unfortunate that our landlord lives opposite and can see through our windows. But at least they have stopped popping round uninvited.
I’ve never realised how surreal James Bond is. The casual sexism is clearly there to distract us all from the main event. Why, only yesterday Blofeld said to Jill St John’s bottom: “such nice cheeks…if only they were brains.” I mean, wow.
It’s a glimpse of Ian Fleming’s dark heart, his BDSM lust loitering like a cackling skull behind all that baby-oiled flesh. Which brings me neatly onto something else that’s been troubling me: Matthew McConaughey’s face.
Here he is in Dazed and Confused (1994):
And 21 years later in True Detective:
It would seem that:
The future is just the present’s ugly selfie.
His transition from sex symbol to serious actor happened exactly when his collagen committed suicide and leapt from his face. But that face was always there, biding its time beneath, glimpsed under harsh lights or from the wrong angle.
Which reminds me of the unfortunate metaphor I used when explaining why I shaved my hair off to a severely depressed friend:
“I decided to push my hair before it jumped”
Interestingly, I just found out that Sean Connery wore a toupee for all his early James Bond roles because he started thinning from a young age. The man’s man’s man wearing a wig? This is as confusing as Esther’s summary of the Oscar Pistorius trial:
“As a manly athlete, it’s ironic that Pistorius’ defence is based on the fact that he screams like a girl“
Today I asked the internet ‘how to stop your bald head shining’, as it has been bothering me how much I glow under artificial light.
This is the worldy wisdom Google threw back at me:
“Real men shine their heads up like lamps.”
The more comfortable I get with people, the more I allow my humour to pop out like a ventriloquist dummy from my inside pocket. I don’t think this is helping me make any friends. Today, in teacher training, we were separated into 4 groups and given a number from 1-4. Then we had to mingle.
“What number are you?” a woman said.
“2” I replied.
“I’m a 2 too,” another woman said comradely.
“Desmond Tutu!” I blurted out, ready to bellow with laughter if anyone tittered.
I looked round the table and everyone had become catatonic, just staring at the bit of desk in front of them. I thought better of shouting it again even though I really did want to. Finally, someone else said something about the weather and everyone leapt over themselves to comment.
I shan’t be doing that again. You know, being me.