Friday, 16 March 2012


I've mentioned George before.  He's the demon barber of Bermondsey Street.  He's been here for ever I suspect, and is one of the last bastions of traditional Bermondsey...a little run down shop that hasn't seen a lick of paint since England won the World Cup.  You my recall that I tend to go there when the naked girl on his calendar changes.  The last time I was there he showed me the calendar that had been donated by the local garage.  Obviously times have moved on because rather than being an elegant collection of  naked girls carefully posed to hide the very last vestiges of their modesty, this one was full of girls who had obviously got confused and had ended up at the photographers studio, rather than the gynaecologist where their poses would have been more appropriate. Fortunately George knows the difference between what's acceptable and what belongs under the mattress, so he didn't put that one up...he put up one from 2005.   I must say that over the last few times I've been there, George has been losing his touch slightly, and I've ended up with several nicks...always explained away as "You must have had a scratch" and I've gone with the flow.  This time, I asked for my usual... a Number three on top and Number two on the sides.  George clipped the blades on started the trim.  Immediately I knew that something wasn't right.  There was just too much hair falling on the floor.  Though he denies it, I swear this was a Number two on top (may be a number one even), and I came out looking like a Millwall Football supporter.  I can see my scalp through my hair, and feel my skull if I rub my hands over it.  All I needed was a pair of braces, white T shirt and H.A.T.E to be tattooed on my knuckles, and I would blend in with the locals nicely.  And I got a little nick to go with it. I no longer have my beau locks.

One of the odd results is that when I cycled in this morning, for the first time ever I could feel the rush of the air over the skin on my head.  It was odd.  It may have been this that distracted me, so that when I had to get off to carry the cycle up the steps of the bridge at Bow Locks, my feet didn't unclip properly and I just tumbled over.  No harm to me but I smashed my new cycle lights.  Bollocks.

To compensate, the Police had closed Rotherhithe Tunnel to traffic, and so I was able to cycle through as the only vehicle in the tunnel.  An odd but exhilarating experience.