Okay, I'll admit it - my entry title is a cheap, Cosmopolitanesque trick to catch your attention and drag you into the mire. It is true, though, because I wouldn't lie to you out there. More on that a little later, maybe. I present myself to you re-invented this fine August afternoon. My muse has left for Beijing, the Forbidden City and I am clad in new colours, but not new clothes; skin, mortality and an old, very retro, striped t-shirt prevail. It was bought several years ago in the mid/late 90s before retro was trendy; take that, Rodeo Drive! But new... emotions? Excitements? Objectives? Inspirations? At this stage, I myself am not sure. Following the last 17 days, it may even be a material acquisition which has sparked this renaissance. I bowed this morning to parental pressure - or so my mom thinks - and shaved my horrific stubble off. To be honest, it doesn't suit me, I don't think, because even at my advanced age - 28 in 3 weeks' time - I still don't grow enough of it to make it look like anything worthwhile. But since for the most part I couldn't be arsed to get up five minutes and earlier and run a razor over my chin, it tends to grow to about a quarter of an inch (that's about 6mm metric, folks) and look patchy before I actually get rid of it. It does not even vaguely approach anything macho and/or rugged in an Indiana Jones kind of way; I cannot trim it into a fashionable goatee as favoured by legendary Soundgarden/Audioslave frontman Chris Cornell during the Seattle heydays of the early 90s; or a trendy one a la Dave Navarro. "It just makes you look dirty," my mom always says. Just to make it appear that I am asserting myself, I tend to let it grow for at least another 2 days before doing anything about it, and I get at least six pointed comments in those two days. As I say, though, I can't be having with looking like I bow to her every whim, can I? It's all about the self-respect, I'm sure you'll agree. And sometimes, it's also about merely being perverse and just downright ombeskof, which is the local language term loosely translated into English as stubborn with 'tude. Apart from clean shaven, a couple of hours out in the brisk August sea air with a pounding headache (which I thought might be post Monday-night-class concussion, since I panic sometimes) have undoubtedly cleaned the mind as well; the effects, however, are largely lost as a result of spending more hours in said brisk sea air last night than in the confines of my bed clutching a round-trip ticket to Dreamland. 3 cups of mmmm-good Italian and two different Dutch coffees are still not quite hitting the spot. I shall give it another half-hour before I proceed to direct ingestion of dry-roasted coffee beans. Nevertheless, a few cervezas and a stiff cappuccino, arguing with bouncers and flirting with the waitress who was merely whoring for tips, and on top of that still getting to shoot the shit with two of my oldest friends after going three bouts in my new Monday Fight Club class... I think it's mostly all good. Oh, and attention Virgin, from management to mere underlings without a clue: Fuck off, yeah? -d- PS: Claire has invited me to dinner next week. She promises it will be atrocius and that we will need to get take-aways as soon as she pulls her creation from the oven and we see it in all its verdant horrendous glory, but she wants to cook for me anyway... Would it be offside if I ask to have her for dessert??