I’ve grown a shit beard again.
Vanessa and I enjoyed a winter staycation the past week, and it has been very pleasant. We've been on long walks, relaxed at home, eaten ice-cream by the seaside. I've worn my tracksuit pants a lot. It's been great to relax, unwind, and take a break from work routines, like shaving. We've just focused on ourselves.
I think I've just about reached the point where I've stopped thinking about my job, in time for me to go back tomorrow.
Today, while sitting in the sun at the Semaphore foreshore, a homeless man with a trolley asked if I had any spare change. Unfortunately I'd just spent our last coins on today's ice-cream.
“Sorry, I don't,” I said.
“Didn't think so,” he replied, and I immediately knew it was time to shave the beard.
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The woman with the fake tan stepped into my office, sat across from my desk and lit a cigarette.
At least, she would, sometime in the next 20 minutes. Smelling the future has advantages, but precision isn’t one of them.