Hairy

Hairy

I'm hairy. Very, very hairy. Shave my head, and within a week it resembles Marge Simpson. It won't stop, and in this sense, I openly mock bald people.

However: I know when it's time to get my haircut. It is when I am mistaken for a woman in public.

Despite a very recent haircut, this happened last weekend at the petrol station as I went to pay for about six pints of fuel (thirty quid).

"What pump love?"

"Number two, duckie."

Alas, lack of funds mean I am at least two weeks from a haircut - I can either regain my manly, chiselled good looks or starve.

Things came to a head (geddit??) at work this week when I was personally jostled by David "Shagger" Blunkett. Sans dog, the man was clearly out on the pull - having been told by a minder who likes a good laugh as much as the next sadist - that he was visiting the Rub-a-Tug parlour, and not a press conference attended by several hundred journalists.

As hand connected with my tail feathers: "Whoops! Sorry miss."

He's staring at me now as I write this. God, he's in for a surprise later.

Also: Don't forget the mega-vote-o of mirth and woe-o.