Out With The Old . . .

On 1 May I shave off my winter follicles. Bye, bye, bristles.

Twenty-seventeen has not been a year I shall remember with affection. I suffered long-term illness and I lost my father. I lost the will to Blip. And then some bastard called a General Election, guaranteeing misery until June 8.

Tomorrow I begin a new job and I am going to make it a whole new start to this most misbegotten of years.

Tune