Monthly Archives: June 2005

Any Barbers Where You Come From, Boy?

I need a haircut. This is my belief. I let it grow recently, so that I would be able to scrape it back in a sinister and greasy way for my portrayal of the Marquis de Sade.

Now it’s just too long (the fringe has reached the eyebrows), but Mairi doesn’t want me to just get it cut off because she doesn’t trust the “crappy £5 merchants” that I’ve been to in the past. So what do I do? I have promised to go to a ‘proper’ hairdresser, something I have never ever done before.

That’s OK, there’s a first time for everything. I think I can just about afford it, as long as I can find one I trust the look of, and that is able to give me an appointment next week.

Plus, I don’t know what I want the hairdresser to do. I would like it a little longer than I’ve had it recently, because people have been complimentary. Or at least they were, up until 2 weeks ago, when it just became too long.

Where does one find hairstyle inspiration? I look at my fellow travellers on the train, and they all have the same hair. OK, some have the horrible Hoxton Fin, despite it now being 2005. Others look like adverts for St-St-Studio Line. The odd one or two look like Link from The Legend of Zelda. The thing is, I want low maintenance. Very low maintenance. Out of bed, shower, dry, minimum hair product, out. Not through some Hugo “Make Your Own Rules” Boss BULLSHIT, but because I’m lazy. Plus I don’t like it straggling round my forehead.

I bought a copy of GQ magazine, in the hope that it would have pictures of cool-looking men with trendy clothes and hair I could copy. Sadly, there were only pictures of women, and men with ridiculous hair, and worse clothes. Lots of close-up pictures of watches and sunglasses though. Mairi suggested I buy Mens Health, but I was put off buying that by the big picture of a muscly man and the headline, “HOW TO HAVE IT OFF” or some similar sentiment. Not really my style.

So all told, this is a monstrous pain in the arse, but I promised, so I ought to go through with it. It will fail, I will hate it, and all will return to normal with the month. Good Bye. And Good Luck.

Home Sweet Home, With Lampshade

He’s home! Shuggie came home yesterday evening, groggy, half shaved, with one of those cool vet lampshade collar things round his neck to stop him biting his stitches out. Frankly he looked rather disreputable. Photos will be taken tonight.

He’s got antibiotics and anti-nausea stuff, and special soft food to eat, but he’s only allowed 2 spoonfuls every few hours. This means he spends the rest of the time whining with hunger, and fetching his bowl and bringing it to you. That is so cute. The vet said he could come back yesterday because he’s making such a good recovery, with no vomiting, and excellent appetite. I guess he’s bouncing back – kids do that, don’t they. Puppies, I mean.

p.s. A person who was once my friend said that dogs with those vet collars on are ‘pikey dogs’. She now has some making up to do.

We Are Bad Parents, I mean Owners

A rather worrying occurence. On Sunday afternoon, Shuggie wandered into the bedroom, under the bed, and found a box containing Christmas decorations. He got into it, found a pretend holly branch made of wire, with red plastic berries. He proceeded to eat part of the branch, berries, wire and all.

In the days that followed, he seemed a bit under the weather, vomiting bile every few hours, sometimes containing bits of red plastic – but no wire (we weren’t sure if he had eaten the wire at this stage). But in between, he was still eating, playing, and going to the toilet – but he was also sleeping a lot. In the end we thought it would be best to take him to the vet yesterday morning. A quick examination, and the vet said he should have an X-ray, and they kept him in. I was off work with a rotten cold anyway (despite the heat), so I just sat around, waiting for the call. The call came, and I was told the X-ray showed a 3cm ball of wire in his stomach, which wouldn’t be passed naturally, and which was in danger of perforating his innards. Surgery was required, and was quickly performed, with no complications, thank goodness. The wire came out, there was no infection (fingers crossed) and no perforations.

So yesterday evening, we visited him just as he was coming out of his anaesthetic. He looked pitiful – all droopy, with one of those big lampshade collars, green socks holding in a drip, and with his belly shaved, revealing a 5cm row of stitches. Mairi and I couldn’t stand seeing him like that.

He spent last night in the Animal Hospital in Streatham. He may be able to come home tonight, depending on his progress. I’ll keep you posted.


The mercury’s pushing 27C on the longest day of the year, and what am I doing? Lying around sweating and feeling shit, because I have a COLD. Cue lots of moaning and clutching at the air. Also I plan later on to be saying to Mairi, “Nurse… gather my family…” and asking for tea. Perhaps with whisky.

Is this what Man-Flu feels like?

The First Four Months

My alarm goes off at 7. But Shuggie has got it into his scruffy head that 6.45 is wakeup time, complete with scratching at the bedroom door and whining. But one mustn’t open the bedroom door when he’s whining, because that gives the impression that whining gets results.

He’s also in the habit of not peeing all night (despite the Training Pads left in the hallway for him) so by the time I get up he’s desperate. Add to that the excitement of me getting up, and it being time for breakfast, and there have been some accidents. So I have developed a strategy.

The trick is to get up, get the flip-flops on, and make myself half decent before opening the bedroom door, grabbing the dog and taking him downstairs to pee in the garden before he has a chance to think, or pee elsewhere, or on me (which has admittedly never happened).

Unfortunately, first thing in the morning, I’m desperate too. I don’t get up in the night, because I sleep like the dead. I almost slept through an attempted burglary once. But valiantly I hold it in, while waiting for the mutt to do his business on the decking. It’s most frustrating if he prevaricates. I’d go in the garden myself if it weren’t for the neighbours’ kitchen windows staring down at me.

Urination successful, I whisk him back upstairs, and say the word, “Dinner!”, which sets off the hopping-on-the-spot which is most cute. Strictly speaking it should be, “Breakfast!”, but his vocabulary isn’t that great yet. I’ll write more about that later.

He demolishes his bowlful in about 20 seconds, which almost makes me feel guilty (“Are we feeding him enough?”) for a second, until I realise that he’s putting weight on at a rate of knots. Already we’re looking at the pictures of him we took in April at just 2 months old.

“Aww, he was so tiny!”

looks at lanky hound now, chewing his slipper

“Now look at him.”

The 20-second eating window gives me the chance to do my business. But I have to be quick, because as soon as he’s eaten, he’s likely to want to POO, which is much better done outside. So I then watch him like a hawk, while making tea and toast, and at the first sign of the circling/squatting thing going on, it’s back down the stairs to the garden.

I should clarify this thing about the stairs. We live in a purpose-built flat, part of a terrace built around 1906. We have our own front door, behind which is a set of stairs leading up to the flat. Then at the back are more stairs leading to our own little garden. The back stairs are bare wood (at the moment) and very steep, so Shuggie needs to be carried down and assisted up. This is why the whole thing is so awkward. Possible solutions: carpet the stairs; add a slide/winch assembly; wait for the dog to grow bigger and get him to carry his own lard-arse up and down the stairs.

Anyway, once the poo is safely disposed of (over the fence – only joking! ah aha ha haha), then, and only then, can I dump the dog on the bed to bite Mairi’s face (most amusing) and get in the shower for some peace and quiet.

Livejournal picture snooping

This here page shows the last few images to be posted to popular US teen blogging site Livejournal.

Beware! May not be safe for work!

Note: no longer functional.

Ook At Da Ickle Baba

I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate Colleen and Paul on the birth, at 7.30am on Sunday 5 June 2005, of their baby girl, provisionally entitled Roxanne, or Roxy.

Roxy O’Sullivan – film noir legend!

Congratulations guys, looking forward to seeing her and you!

33 Years And I Can’t Scratch An Itch…

Here are some things that people gave me to celebrate the Earth turning just one more time, and that I am still alive.

Thank you very very much to all you guys! You Guys! You are the greatest! Guys! You Guys! You!

  • Akira – DVD box set – watched a couple of trailers
  • Ghost In The Shell DVD
  • Gatchaman DVD – watched one episode
  • Kraftwerk – Minimum-Maximum Live CD
  • Cut Copy CD
  • The Vanishing, book – started reading at cafe on Sunday, finished on the train a day later – fantastically chilling.
  • Rip It Up And Start Again – History of Post Punk, book
  • The Actor’s Guide 2005 book – wishful thinking there, Dave.
  • Chocolate coated ginger pieces (eaten)
  • Maxims of Paris chocolate wafers in posh tin – half eaten
  • Socks!

Appy polly loggies to anyone I’ve missed – I’ll take stock when I get home tonight.