Eighteen stone.
Eighteen bloody stone.
And 12 ounces.

.
.
Older Son may be becoming a bit of a theological handful.
“Haven’t you got anything a little smarter to wear for church?” I just asked him.
“No,” he replied, “but then when did Jesus ever dress for the occasion…?
I’m not totally narrow-minded on the subject.
When female tattoos first came in vogue, I was with Ross in Friends: the small, dainty, discreet ones did indeed look sexy.
The large, shoulder-to-shoulder ones towards which the genre has gravitated, on the other hand, are about as sexy as a plumber’s bum-crack and it was high time someone said so in a way that exposes this travesty for what it is.
Hats off, then, to the spare-no-blushes redneck fly fishing forum at The Drake.
‘Tramp stamp’.
Love it.
My beard is just over a month old and starting to take on the labrynthine qualities of an Arabian souk.
I was within a whiske second or so of leaving the house yesterday with a glob of honey glinting in its midst like an amber stone in a thicket.
This appalled me. One notch down from the bearded smoker with ochre fur around his lips, is the tramp whose facial hair tells the story of his eating habits for the last three days.
As I frantically scraped the honey from my face and looked around for other offending items, it occurred to me that there is a fine boundary separating grooming from farming, the latter a mix of crop cultivation and the husbandry of a small, furry animal.
And I’ve just crossed it.
“Grow a beard,” wife and children clamoured over Christmas. So I did.
I’m open-minded about it: personally, I think it ages me but others say it works. So, until last night, it sat there, a mere work-in-progress.
Then my wife casually stroked it during a conversation in the kitchen and I felt a frisson of pleasure through my lower jaw hitherto unknown.
My chin, it would appear, has become an erogenous zone.
So many sexual avenues are being sealed off at my time of life, to find one actually opening up puts a certain spring in my step.
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