There are at least five hairdressers within four minutes walking distance of where I live, I don't live in the city, seems a bit excessive. I mention it because I started writing this while waiting for a shampoo.
All the other customers are women and they've all got foil in their hair, I think it's for the highlights. Unless they're just trying to block the aliens from reading their Belgian thoughts about hair and mayonnaise. I declined the offer of coffee, as usual. I've seen them disappear into their little hair-secrets secret room to return laden with cups of boiling spider urine, no thanks. (That's laden, not Laden. Laden is the fella the CIA trained to kill Russians, who would've guessed he'd turn into a bad-guy? now't as queer as folk eh?!) For a change of pace, I accepted the offer of reading material and selected the Cosmopolitan. I feel that if I was a Belgian woman with foil in her hair and mayonnaise on her mind, I'd want to read the Cosmopolitan - it's more in tune with my lifestyle than the less established women’s press. So, with a dazzling display of dexterity, cunning and cat-like nonchalance, I to turn to the horoscopes. I reckon Vierge is Virgo, going by the dates. My French isn't very good (in the sense that it's excruciatingly poor) but this is a good chance to practise. It seems to say something about sensual adventures, beware of short travel agents and your boyfriend's an insensitive twat so why don't you dump him? "it's the same in any language" as they say. The rest of cosmo seems to be littered with pictures of semi naked women, so why do they complain about men's magazines? Maybe that's just my hormonal perception of cosmo.
I'll finish this later at home....
....later at home
The ritual of the hairdresser continued with me making scissors-clippy mimes, twenty-five French lessons have not quite paid for themselves yet, even though they were provided free by my loving employer. Next on the saturday-things-to-do-before-sunday agenda is shopping. Luckily the supermarket has a great butcher's counter so I picked out the two biggest veal medallions and a few other bits and set off home. Being unfamiliar with the Gordon Blue school of cooking I decided to make a huge Kebab and chips, more like Gordon Bennett. Not the pony shish kebab with the cubed paprika's and such nonsense, this is in pitta bread with token salad effort and drowned in samurai and hot pepper sauce. Some might say a waste of good veal, those are the veal snobs who peeeeer from behind the curtains at the neighbour's wife while she hangs up the washing and have carnal thoughts in their pants.
"Stay away veal snobs!", I say to them, "or I'll pluck your eyebrows with a lawnmower and plant watercress in your sock drawer". Seems to work well enough.
The thing with veal snobs is they're not all that bright because they keep hand-guns in their dishwashers and the gunpowder fumes get expelled into the kitchen during the rinse cycle. Then they breathe the fumes in over breakfast and take on a drowsy distanced disposition for the rest of the day, every day. I once caught a veal snob by hanging watercress from a sun bed in my back yard, watercress to a veal snob is like garlic to a vampire but they have a morbid fascination with it, it took nine months.
In the meantime I managed to make a death star out of hotel towels and discovered the mathematical description of 13th dimensional quantum behaviour but I lost it when that hot chick next door was hanging out the washing.
Now it's time for the veal and rocquefort kebab...