So I had my haircut.

It takes me a long time to work my way up to getting sheared, ever longer as I get older. I have an appalling record with hairdressers. But it was getting to the stage where it was haircut or hairband and really, if I’d left it any longer, my legs are so short I’d have just looked like a levitating mullet.

So I did some work.

About which little can be said if I wish to continue paying my mortage. And if I continue to drink the office coffee, I would say that would cease to be an issue all together – what the hell do they put in that stuff?

So I went out for dinner.

Very posh nosh on Charlotte Street. Good grape. Superb steak. Delicate dessert. I do like a full belly and a light head. Mmmm.

So I sent some stories out.

Not stuff written this year but stories composed in the last part of 2007 and polished over Christmas. They’ll disappear into the ether for a few weeks until they return, pigeon like, with good tidings or, more likely, bad.

So I read some.

This week has been about finishing my trek through Sandman and finally getting round to reading 1984. A review, 1984, will probably appear today or tomorrow.

And ultimately I’m not sure about this haircut: I suspect I look like a fat Kramer.

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