I like fog. Always have done, I know it’s a bit of a nuisance when it comes to motorways/isolated moorland and wotnot but I get the same feeling in fog as I do when I get into bed, in an oblique way of course as in many respects they’re diametrically opposed, one is freezing water and the other soft, warm and dry… anyway, I was riding in this morning through the fog, which was rather lovely for reason mentioned, when I came upon a small car with one of those dangling signs in the rear window for the purposes of supplying trivial, and in this instance, infuriatingly trite information with an undertow of smugness to any poor sod unlucky enough to cast an eye upon it.
The sign said ‘Little Princess on Board’.
‘Little Princess’ is indicative of this fucking dreadful Jordan/Spice Girl/ Paris Hilton world in which we now exist, itself a monstrous dumbing down of the female that encourages this whole ‘my shit don’t stink’ attitude on the one hand and pro-misogynist, slutty thinking on the other. But what really got my goat was that the slogan was printed on a tiny pink t-shirt, the mother (that decided she was going to announce to the world she was carting about one of those vomiting high-heeled footballer throwabouts-to-be) clearly felt that a basic sign wasn’t good enough for her little bastard, oh no, she thought a tiny pink fucking t-shirt was somehow ‘classier’.
At the next set of traffic lights I looked through the car to examine the atrocious arsehole driving. A girl who couldn’t have been a day over 17 was swishing her hair furiously in the drivers seat and glaring at her visage in the mirror pausing only to adjust her features with various cosmetic devices. The lights went from red, to orange to green and still she was pissing about with her head. I tooted my horn to alert of this rather important light-change fact and she ceased preening, stared in the mirror at me before realising the lights were telling her to go, other motorists started honking she waved an apology. I gave her the finger.
Pleasant evening last night, met up with Frank for a pair of ales (well, it was Tuesday…) and made supper on my return, a simple meal of baked potato with tuna melt, coleslaw and corn with Myfwt. We watched About Schmidt, which we both rather enjoyed, the end upset Myfwt somewhat, her dad is in hospital at the mo and it triggered a few relative emotions.
Yesterday afternoon I procured a new set of clippers for my bearded face and undercarriage, which, if left un-pruned, begin to resemble Brian Blessed. This morning I undertook the delicate act of pollarding my clockweights and I’m pleased to report the clippers were a good buy and the results more than clement. Following this I washed my hair, I’m only mentioning this because I never wash it in the morning as it (used to) take(s) too long to dry. But the recent haircut allowed me to wash and partially dry my hair before shoving my barnet into my crash helmet. By the time I arrived at work my hair was dry and looking all messy and cool and shit.
I’m sat here feeling all vainglorious with clean hair and a shaven bag and subsequently feel perfectly preened.
I make no apologies for today’s offing. It’s folk folks (check out the gunt on the chick…)