Ominosity

I went for a haircut today. OK, so that's hardly starting a post with a bang, but bear with me, it's leading up to something. I'm not promising that something is going to be particularly good, but you're here now so you might as well give it a go. You can hum to yourself if it makes the time go any quicker. OK?

Good.

So, yes, haircut. There I am, sitting in a seat designed for Wee Jimmy Cranky, getting my hairs cut* when Gordon - the man in charge of the scissors - says, 'So this'll be your last pre-forty haircut, then.'

You know what? I'd never thought about it that way. But he's right, it was the last haircut I'd ever have as an even vaguely young person. And that got me to thinking that everything I did today was going to be the last time I did it before I was forty. Well, unless it was something I was planning on doing more than once - like having a cup of tea, or going to the toilet. Two not unrelated activities.

Mind you, as a small aside, I made the mistake of buying a copy of the Big Issue today while out shopping for birthday treats, and leaving said magazine on the floor of the bathroom. 'And?' I hear you say, 'So what? There's a bunch of nasty horsey magazines in there too. Don't hear you moaning about them. What did the Big Issue ever do to you?'

What did it do to me? It put a big photo of Margaret Thatcher on the cover, that's what it did. Now, every time I go to the toilet, her face is staring up at me from the linoleum. I don't want an ex-Prime Minister staring at my intimate regions while I'm about my toilette. It's not wholesome.

Anyway, so even if it was something I was planning on doing more than once (not counting going to the toilet, because I'm now a bit creeped out by Maggie ogling my saucisse de l'amour and have to go wee in the neighbour's garden instead) at some point during the day it would be the last time I did it before turning forty.

Forty.

Rhymes with 'OH DEAR JESUS I'M OLD!'

And another thought occurred to me: was I going to see another forty years? Now when I was wee, I never thought I'd get this far, but then I always assumed I was immortal anyway, so it didn't really matter. No one's surprised when you make it all the way to forty. First forty years? Could do that standing on your head. Which would make people look at you funny if you go to parties, but sod them - long as you've got crisps.

The second forty years though ... that'll make me eighty. If I manage them. And if I can then it means I'm now officially middle-aged. Urgh. Middle aged, and what do I have to show for it? A bad back, and sinuses I wouldn't wish on ... actually, I can think of a number of people I'd happily curse with my sinuses. That'd sodding teach them. Bastards.

...

I've forgotten where I was going with this.

...

Anyway, to celebrate the whole turning forty thing I'm going to be dragging my bearded self up to Inverness on Saturday to give a crime writing workshop with Mr Allan 'Happy Potato' Guthrie. We did the same thing in Shetland last week, and it seemed to go OK, so I'm hoping that the experience of repetition will carry me through the inevitable hangover.

After that, I suppose I'm going to have to get all fit and healthy and boring. Otherwise there's no chance in a badger's bumhole I'm going to survive the next forty years.

Then what would you do, eh?

* Oh yes, when I go to the hairdresser I expect my money's worth.

Part-Frozen Mice

OK, so I'll admit it, I've been letting the whole 'communication with the outside world' thing go mouldy in the back of the fridge. Next to that bag of Brussels sprouts I've been hoarding since three weeks before Christmas.

I like Brussels sprouts. I like broccoli too, but for some reason, whenever there's a trapped farty smell wafting out of the salad drawer in the fridge, it's always one or the other that's causing it.

Of course with the weather being what it is right now - sodding freeeeeeezing - not everyone is suffering from a case of the mouldys. The mouses Grendel brings home to visit with the Death Fairy are every bit as fresh and tasty today as they were last night, when they were dragged kicking and squealing from their little mousey igloos.

I wonder if they're technically mousecicles, and if so, can I market them to cats in hot countries? I bet if you're a ginger tabby living in the Maldives, you'd be grateful for an ice-cold mouse right about now. With a crunchy, chewy centre. The fur would keep them frozen for longer, and the tail makes a natural stick! There's a fortune to be made there. Or there would be if cats had any disposable income.

But I digress. Yes. Right - hermit like behaviour.

In an attempt to pretend I'm not some sort of shut-in mad person with a penchant for collecting mouldering brassicas I'm getting out and about a bit this year. (oh, you hussy!) Last week I strutted my cold, but funky stuff at Barrhead Community Library, down Glasgow way. And next Thursday I'm going to be hauling any stuff of a funk-like nature I have left down to Wester Hailes library, where Lin Anderson will be showing hers off too.

Which sounds a bit dirty.

And probably will be.

I've even started doing interviews again, believe it or not. If you've got Sky Arts on your telly, you can see me making a complete prat of myself on The Book Show this Thursday (12th), where I'll be getting my Pooh on for the ladies. Oh yes. You know you want it!

I also spoke to a nice young lady from the Highland Times about some workshops I'm going to be doing with that international man of disappearing hamsters, Allan Sunshine Guthrie. I think the interview went OK. Certainly the newspaper lady did a lot of giggling, and I don't think that was all down to my manly sexual magnetism. Not down the phone anyway. In person I can pick up filing cabinets with it. Which is handy if you need to hoover underneath them.

Well, at my time of life it helps to have something going for you.