It’s tempting to keep the foxhunting thing going – I don’t think I’ve ever had so many comments on the blog two days running. Mind you, I suspect next week things could get even busier: I’m in the middle of reading “A Right to Kill?” by Tony Martin, and I think when I blog about that (when I’ve finished it) there could be some little discussion…

Anyway, I’m advised by those who know these things (Lorraine at work, plus my Mum), that I’m coming due for a haircut. I don’t really like having my hair cut – for one thing, every cut represents four squids I’ll never see again – but I have to admit that since I started having it cut really short (grade two, for those who know about such things), the bald patch appears to be less noticeable.

I haven’t always used the barber: For a year or so I went to a Personal Trichological Consultant. Actually he was only a barber really, but for thirteen quid a shot you expect a really long job title. My hair didn’t look any better when I went there, but he had better magazines in the waiting room.

The barber before him committed suicide about an hour after cutting my hair. I wish that was a joke, but it isn’t.

Anyway, back to the present, and in spite of the fact that it was lobstering down with rain I did a three mile walk this evening, encompassing the geocache Wickham Wander, planted by my good caching chums Paul and Judith*. I tried for a trig point on the way back, but it was on private land and I couldn’t get to it.

*Positive thoughts ‘n stuff to Judith, who was slightly hurt this morning when a dickhead car driver drove into the back of her motorbike. Hopefully Pompey will beat Blackburn tomorrow to cheer her up!

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