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I suppose if I was a more obstreperous customer, I would have complained that "a hair" doesn't really start with the letter A, because if it did, so would a bit of mozzarella, a rasher of bacon and anything else you could attach an indefinite article to. But I was being nice, so I discarded the hair and carried on eating. It had taken me three quarters of the salad before I found the hair, and I wasn't sure whether they'd believe me if I took an almost-empty bowl of food back to the shop and demanded some sort of recompense.
Although if they would give me a free salad to compensate for the hair, and if I could somehow find another hair (or perhaps a fingernail, or half a waterbug - I crave variety, after all) then perhaps I'd get free salads for life.
Free hairy salads, that is, which sounds like a revolting euphemism for I-don't-know-what. The kind of thing unkempt dandophiliacs prefer?
I had been intending to go to a boxing class this evening, but after that salad and a day where I didn't feel I'd really been clever enough, I wimped out of being punched in the head and went to the gym instead1. Thinking about it, if I wasn't that clever today maybe being punched in the head wouldn't make much difference, but it's taken me three more hours to realise that. Which in turn makes me feel even more stupid.
I meant to rehearse tonight, but so far all I've done is practise my Swiss accent. It sounds like this.
(Try reading that last sentence aloud in your best Swiss accent. It made me laugh, anyway.)
1 Ten minutes on a bicycle, 20 minutes rowing, 20 minutes running (3.6k) and then ten minutes sweating profusely on a bicycle again. The pain of this was nothing compared to the unholy agony of the foot massage I'm currently undergoing; perhaps this is making up for all the hard work my feet have been put through over the last five days.
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