. . see his arse in similar fashion?
If memory serves me right, Sampson the Nazirite who slayed the Philistines with the jawbone of an ass – you remember, right? – had a haircut and then things went pear-shaped. Same with me: Haircut, and next thing . .
It was very Irish: the floor came up to meet me. Also quite biblical: My jawbone was level with my ass, and there was a heavenly host of angels staring down at me. My three special ladies, plus a fella with a stethoscope around his neck and a lady holding a sharp instrument. Know what the worst thing was? I gazed up feeling fine, but a little puzzled when I realised that if you added all five of them’s ages together, they might still be younger than me collectively.
I must admit the night before I also didn’t have me customary glass of red. So maybe the haircut plus the lack of booze tipped me over the edge – or toppled me onto the carpet? It’s a mystery, but the clear message seems to be: Less Haircuts, More Booze, going forward.
I protested I’m fine, but they made me lie down and checked my vital signs. Which were all excellent. Best-ever. In fact positively Trump-like. Nevertheless, they insisted I go home to bed and stay there. When I protested, they pointed out firmly that when the sister said ‘Give me you arm, I need to take blood,’ I started taking off my shoes. Oh. OK.