Had it up to hair

Today my sweaty mop hair reached tipping point between acceptable and unacceptable. Gugs gamely stepped up after boasting about university nights when she’d cut the lads’ hair after a few vodkas. She couldn’t provide any testimonials but I didn’t have a plethora of options. The rickety garden furniture formed the perfect outdoor salon, and she did an excellent job to tame the mop. We didn’t deduct marks for failing to ask me about my holiday plans, nor proffering a coffee, because a) it’s hard to go more than a few miles from the house, and b) every time I’ve drunk coffee at the hairdressers I’ve had a mouthful of my own trimmings.

Following my trim I hit the streets of Cambridge with an exaggerated sense of self-confidence. I had a gin in Berry and Helen’s garden, and then sprawled on the grass on Castle Hill next to Shire Hall, the council building. Whether we’re permitted to do that, who knows, but with many council workers absent from their workstations for several weeks, repercussions seemed unlikely. Elsewhere I noticed a posh kitchen showroom place reopening, and decided this marks a definite switch in the strictness of lockdown, even if that remains unofficial amid the haze of confusion about the government’s real strategy.