THE DAILY ARSE 15th April 2006 "Is it just a tidy-up sir" ?

Reveille was sharp at 0700 hours. We formed up a bulb planting detail, shouldered tools and marched out into the brisk morning. On the command "Hole" a depression was created for each naissant daffodil or whatever. Second on the duty rossiter after the bulbs, turned out to be; tidying up the cat mint. Mr Monster {Monsieur Le Monstre) ended up beneath the pile of cuttings searching for the ultimate high. Then just avoided being impaled with the garden fork. Next up; (because I'm starting to look a bit more mad than usual), cutting back what remains of my hair with the kitchen scissors... A few tufts of what looks to me like mouse fluff fall to the tarmac drive then quickly blow away in the light breeze. At this stage pruning is unlikely to encourage any new growth. Yet there was a time, (about 1972) when having a haircut was so dramatic it felt like being scalped. When the softly coughing, now long deceased barber with the nicotine breath, swept up enough hair off the lino to fill a large sack. But the early seventies were tough on barbershops, when the only customers they could get through the doors were old men and boys. That is boys with older fashioned parents or just older parents...