Darwin- or Marx-wards in the facial hair department

Allowing myself at least one day when I’m not going to do what I’m supposed to (although I do do some work on that job I picked up last Monday), I complete the following tasks: I play a lot of jazz guitar (including a fair amount of work on Softly As In A Morning Sunrise which won’t help, but which it feels good to have done.

I go to Argos, which is always a mistake – as soon as I enter the building a little voice in my head (you know, that little voice) says “Welcome to Hell”, which I accept might be a tad melodramatic. As a consolation, the ending up with household goods thing always helps. I buy an electric razor (mainly for the beard trimmer – I haven’t shaved since the infection set in almost two weeks ago and so am heading Darwin- or Marx-wards in the facial hair department. Karl, not Groucho). And a cordless iron, because if I’m going to do ironing (and I am at some point) I might as well do it in a comfortable way rather than have to fight with that durn wire all the time. I pay my money and take my ticket and wait in the queue for the queue at the picking up desk. Argos employees are picking things up, holding them above their heads and shouting out what they are in hopes that someone will come and claim them, and those that do have to push through a horde of people who have decided that standing right at the front will make their purchases arrive more quickly. It’s a cross between the last round of the Generation Game and an all-out riot. Astonishingly everyone ends up with something that to some extent resembles what they asked for.

Home, more jazz, more sitting around.

I should add that to my list of personal demands: “More Jazz! More Sitting Around! Free Chocolate For All!” With a manifesto like that it’s a surprise I’m not already the President.