Tuesday, December 30, 2008


Cadmore End, Buckinghamshire.

Yesterday evening I visited Alessandro, my hair artiste, and bade him work his usual wonders. On this occasion he surpassed himself. In fact, so good did the hairstyle look that I felt a need to buy some new clothes to complement it. Accordingly, I purchased a new Crombie jacket in Jermyn Street, together with an assortment of shirts and ties from Thomas Pink. And, damn, I look marvellous in them. Indeed, I am become the Beau Brummell of the 21st century.

There is, however, one problem. So astounding do I look that mirrors are now loath to give up my image. Whereas other people just see a real-time reflection of themselves that moves as they move, when I look in a mirror, I see a series of still pictures. It's as if a cinema film has been slowed down from 24 frames a second to one frame every five or more seconds. This is obviously because the mirror wants to savour each and every moment of me and my adornments. Naturally, there are disadvantages to this.

Take clothes shopping, for example. The purchasing process involves standing in front of a mirror and examining how the clothes hang. This in itself isn't a problem. I can, for instance, turn my back to the mirror and then look round and see how the jacket looks from behind. However, when I'm done and the next person comes along and looks in the mirror, my image is often still in it. He sometimes has to wait for up to half an hour before it clears.

Shaving, too, has become more of a hassle. It can take forever, because I must wait several seconds to see the results of each stroke of the blade. Now I'm forced to put on a disguise in order to fool the mirror into thinking I'm someone else. Sometimes, though, I overdo it. This morning, by skilful application of Leichner waxes, I made myself up to look exactly like Johnny Vegas. Unfortunately, when I then went to shave, the mirror refused to reflect my face and went black. It still hasn't quite recovered.

The people I feel most sorry for, though, are those who visit public washrooms immediately after me. This is because my image is still in the mirror when they wash their hands (assuming they do). Seeing it, most believe themselves to have undergone a sudden, extremely beneficial transformation, and so say, "Fuck me! I'm gorgeous! I shall go out on the pull and have the pick of all the most delectable women on the planet!"

Sadly, it's only when the police arrest them for harrassment that they realize the sad, awful truth about themselves. But that's a small price to pay for me being a sex god.

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