To a cheap clip joint in Caversham to have my flowing locks shorn from my head.
As I sat in the barber's chair to order my Number Four buzz-cut, a couple of scruffy types amble in off the street. You know the type: Oozing guilty and the owners of a thousand watts of moron, broadcast straight into the fillings in your teeth.
"You'll have to pay up front," says the barber-euse to the ne'er-do-wells as they take a seat in the waiting area, "You've been in here before an' you did a runner."
"Who - us?" one of them protests, playing the victim to the hilt, "It was ...err... somebody else what looks like me. Honest. I never done no runner or nuffin'."
"And," she said, clearly on a roll, "You did the same at the last place I worked. In fact – fuck off."
"Yeah? You goin' to make us?" they demand, clearly ignorant of the fact that they are not the ones in possession of a healthy supply of freshly-stropped Wilkinsons.
"No, but my husband is."
Enter a huge, muscled gentleman, his arms bearing tattoos reading "I [heart] barbering" and "I also [heart] breaking people's legs when they run off without paying."
They fucked off, without even waiting for their something for the weekend.
Not ten minutes previously, I was at the cash machine, withdrawing funds for my forthcoming Number Four buzz-cut.
"Excuse me," says a not unattractive young lady, "But the machine's eaten my card, and I haven't got enough money for food and the bus fare home. Can you lend me ten pounds?"
I looked her up and down, then back up again, remembering the hideous ordeal an online pal endured recently, when faced with an equally alluring cleavage.
Two words: "Heard it."
Her reply is equally to the point: "Fair cop."