Dreamaticus

When I first took the phone call I thought it was my mother speaking, but as the north east accent became stronger I began to have doubts. If she were to be believed, an aunt had died and the funeral was on Thursday 1st February. I needed to make plans – fast.

First of all, what would I do about work? I taught on Thursdays. Then there was the more important question of my hair. I couldn’t tun up to a family funeral looking like this!

I jumped into the yellow Volvo estate and followed the A286 to the retail park. I should have gone directly, but I made a short diversion up Walwyn Close in Birdham thinking that this would save my having to turn right later. I was wrong: this decision cost me even more time.

By the time I reached the retail park the car had conveniently transformed into my tandem so I was able to take my vehicle into the main mall.

Here I bumped into SS who had just bought a stained glass ornament for her nephew from a rather good-looking bald security man. The ornament snapped when I took it in my hands so SS sent me back to buy a replacement. The route back to the stained glass stall took me through a series of luxurious bathrooms. Here women soaked in bubbles side by side in neat little rows. I was very tempted to jump in with them, but there was still the question of my coiffure.

Eventually I made it to the hairdresser to see what could be done about my shocking hairstyle. None of the stylists was willing to take me on. Eventually the boss talked one of her employees into giving me some advice. This man was clearly wearing a toupée: I could see the plastic slots in his skull to which his black wig was attached. There was no way I would trust him with my hair, even after his smooth sales talk of “nourishing unctions” and “flamed ends”. When he announced that the estimated cost of all this treatment would be £150 I made my excuses and left.