After that, I figured I might as well get my hair cut. The new shearer in the hellhole cheap barbershop performed a little prayer ritual before a picture of a dreadlocked muscleman Jesus surrounded by scenes from His Passion, before wielding the clippers. His piousness didn't make him any gentler in dealing with me. Worse butchery than usual, and many whacks in the proboscis by the electric cord. I wish I could just do it myself. I have one of those cheap kits, but I always bottle out.
I thought I was depressed by the Labour Conference, but the manhandling of the wee octogenerian Holocaust survivor by massive bouncer types, for rather mildly exclaiming "Rubbish!" was really the cherry on top. That's a scene that is going to stay with me for a long time. I also thought my protesting days were well over, but this sort of thing gives me the urge to waddle down Whitehall waving my walking stick. Jeezus!