Can’t hang around today since apparently the world will be ending sometime around tea-time, and I’ve still got stuff to do.
I’m not sure how one is expected to prepare adequately for the second coming of Christ, but am a bit worried because I had a list of stuff I was supposed to do before I died and I haven’t gotten around to any of it.
I haven’t had a ride-along in an RAF jet. I haven’t learned how to fire a hand-gun and I haven’t even sniffed the leather interior of an Aston Martin, much less learned to drive one in a skid-pan.
I don’t have a bolt-hole in the Lazio region of Italy and I haven’t been formally introduced to either David Tennant or the boys off Top Gear.
I haven’t had a wing of a hospital named after me and I haven’t even begun to make a dent in my goal to end world hunger and be the bringer of bringing about all the world peace that I had intended on, well, bringing about.
So in terms of timing, this news pretty much sucks.
Of even greater concern is the fact that, as of Thursday night, the Teenager will now be meeting his maker with a hairstyle that can only be described as ‘asbo-chic’.
I was sitting reading my new book about the Druids, and day-dreaming about wood-nymphs and fairies, when my Nike-branded pride and joy, waltzed in, threw back his hoodie-lid, and delightedly showed me his new ‘do’.
His mate ‘Zeus’, an allegedly master hair stylist, who had obviously used as inspiration, a picture straight out of the ‘Auschwitz Handbook of Hair (1942 Edition)’, had scalped him.
I was speechless for about three and a half seconds.
Obviously sensing that I was perhaps the wrong audience for the triumphant unveiling of his hill-billy-make-over, he stalked off in the direction of the shower.
Annabelle, who was trailing behind him, asked him if it was so that he could wash the blood off his forehead.
Turns out he actually wanted to have a bash at scrubbing the biro marks off his neck from where ‘Zeus’ had drawn an outline before he got stuck into the artistic cutting and shaving bit of the process.
I have the same problem.
Anyone who knows me will confirm that, whilst I love it when Tony & Guy do the Indian head massage thing, trying to get all the marker-pen off my face afterwards is a right bitch.