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Whimper!

Those don’t look right said Jayne, you can see them a mile off. Jayne was of course referring to what I had been ignoring for some time, a profusion of half grey eyebrow hairs. It makes me look distinguished I said, a sort of poor mans Sean Connery I tentatively suggested knowing full well that with my thinning pate, near bifocal requiring vision and a profusion of hair in places I never thought imaginable was indeed my brain buckling at the thought of growing old.

It’s not something I have ever really thought of, I suppose it’s to do with not having the pointers along the way. Having met Jayne over thirty years ago that has simply been my life, no relationships to mark the passage of time, no children to watch growing up, only great memories that blur into one happy time. Life as an artist compounds this, we don’t have a set working day anymore just a continuing studio time that spans seven days a week and ignores trivialities like bank holidays and such interspersed with sojourns out of the studio occasional. Instead it’s a flexible existence that bends around how we work not shapes it in an environment that is pleasing and that is again what makes me forget just how old I am.

Let’s see just how ancient I am.

47 years 0 months 13 days

or 564 months 13 days

or 2454 weeks 2 days

or 17,180 days

or 412,320 hours

or 24,739,200 minutes

or 1,484,352,000 seconds

Now I look at those figures and think wow, you should be a dad dancing old fuddy duddy but I look in the mirror and still think I am in my thirties, then I see the grey hairs in my eyebrows with three little hairs in particular waving at me and I scowl, scowl at the thought of getting old. All I see is Zimmer frames and thick glasses, advertisements for commodes and funeral arrangements all with the promise of a free Parker pen. (A Parker pen you say? Well, sign me up right away young man!) So in an effort to stave off the advancing years I foolishly let Jayne pluck them out after she assured me it wouldn’t hurt a bit which is a bit like saying fire dosen’t burn and water isn’t wet.

Jayne restrained me. I’ll say it again, restrained me.

Jayne it seems turns into a maniac when plucking hairs off her husband and gains superhuman powers that allows her to pin me down and I mean really pin me down. It’s all fun and games until the first hair gets plucked and you start to flail in agony. For some strange reason as each hair is pulled Jayne smiles a peculiar smile and snaps her mouth with a chomping sound exactly at the moment she knows when the pain will hit. Any attempt for me to get up ends with being forcibly shoved back into place and the plucking abuse continues.

And you do this to yourself? I whimpered wiping tears from my eyes. Pain is not my strong point you see dear blog which stems from a disasterous operation many years ago on my nose that started with an accidental overdose from a nurse knocking me out for two days followed by a recovery that I was assured by the doctor would restore some of my sense of smell. Or as it put it, once it’s been operated on the plugs will come out like greased pigs and you will be back to normal. I didn’t like the greased pigs analogy and true to form they did come out like greased pigs.

Unexpectedly and quite boisterous if I remember issuing blood from my nose lavishly over three beds and patients on the ward. Nurses feverishly trying to stuff them back up whilst I sat there nearly passing out from the pain and looking like something from the Exorcist, I’m surprised my head didn’t rotate at the same time. The upshot is that after the operation which restored no extra sense of smell I can now spray water from my tear ducts on demand just like the water jets on your car windscreen. How novel.

The offending hairs are gone and my youth is restored.

Until the next time said Jayne with a peculiar smile.

Whimper!

 

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