One of the many blissful things about having a few days off work is that I don't need to get up at 6.15am to shave. I hate shaving. It's one of the many curses we men have to put up with in life - women don't know how lucky they are.
I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom (that was a great song, by the way), bleary-eyed, trying to think about what the day will have in store. I have BBC Radio Five Live on in the background - Nicky Campbell is good for the soul first thing in the morning - but the conversation on the radio is drowned out by my electric razor as I attempt to shave off another day's growth. There's always a niggly wee bit that takes that wee bit more of an effort and the danger of this is that you hack a great chunk out of your face.
Then there's the shaving rash which can make your neck and chin look like an over ripe tomato - I tend not to use afterhave because a) of the stink, b) it stings like hell and c) it doesn't usually work for me.
So I'm sitting here on Monday evening with three days growth and, as my daughter Michaela isn't slow in telling me, I look like a tramp.
If I slap on the cheap aftershave I got as a Christmas gift in 1998, I'll smell like one too...
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