Scratchwood has been noticing me again, and noticing me with the lowered brow and hungry nostrils of a man not happy with the bending (he is overhearing) of my ear. It’s Q, for the wife has been tugging at my beard with gestures doubtless happier if accompanied by the scissors. For the beard has grown and even whilst as trimmed as ever anything might be about me, still it has about it such an attraction for dwarfs seeking a burglar that small children are chasing me in the street seeking to steal fireworks. It’s worthy of mention that the beard was Q’s idea for I am a man for whom shaving is a chore – and not one with a punch line that ends with ‘a pint since you’re asking’. Now the beard is near enough needing a name she is worried. I am and also - yet not for a reason of the same scent, for my worry is more of what the sprouts will say? They now clearly expecting to go to Hogwarts will be disenchanted (aha, aho!) to find that more likely it is double-maths and do-they-still-do-netball come the double figure of year and yoyo.
So then shave or no, and whether in any case it is my choice at all...
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