Going faster

I went running on Friday. Well, I say running, let's get this straight, I am not Forest Gump, and there was no running being done. But I dislike the term jogging, it sounds like an activity favoured by the sort of person who goes to bed early and says things like "Oh Martin and I were having sex again three weeks after Alexandra was born, but then, she was already sleeping through," who possibly also plays hockey and netball in the manner of a 14-year-old, despite being 36. So I shall henceforth refer to the thing I do that makes me redder than any other thing I do as 'going faster'. That about sums it up.

Anyway, I wanted to post about the going faster on Friday, but Blogger was b*llocksed up. The reason I wanted to post about it was that I got up at 7:30am and went before work. And then, and then, I actually did go to work, and didn't phone in sick then lie on my sofa all day catching up on a little daytime TV, because quite frankly, getting up at 7:30am and going faster is quite enough for one day, thank you. But anyway, I am going to cease documenting this monumental event at this point, because those who don't know me are probably sick of hearing about the going faster, and those who do will have just read the bit about 7:30am, and they will probably have gone blind with shock and fallen backwards off their chairs.

So, onto a far more interesting subject - my hair. I had my hair cut by senior stylist at Tony & Guy in Wimbledon on Saturday. The reason I had rented the pricey fingers of a senior stylist to slice up my crowning glory was that Amy and Caroline bought me fifty quid's worth of T&G vouchers for my birthday, which I promptly lost put somewhere safe. I had started to think I was never going to get that damn birthday haircut, when lo! The vouchers finally manifested themselves from a secret dimension, a portal to which is surely located in the mystical recesses of my knicker drawer. Now I have, for the first time in my life, a haircut that actually suits my face. I would get the photo off my phone and put it on here to show you, but of course I have no farkin idea how to do that (and if I did it would be sideways) so you will just have to trust me.

Now, clearly I would like to use this weblog for good, and so I will share with you the wisdom I gathered at Tony & Guy on Saturday. Go for the senior stylist. It's ten pounds more. Ten tiny pounds. That's an accidental wander down the nibbley bits aisle at M&S. Don't fritter away your pertest, most collagen-plumped, child-free years sadly preening and flirting with a tragic, misshapen barnet sprouting forth from your noggin, all for the sake of ten measly pounds. Oh, what a waste.