I am really growing to hate the mirror in my bathroom.
I stare into it every morning, preparing for my shave, and the things I notice most are the lines around my eyes. I am not very old, but it seems as if my flesh is dying on me. Every day there is another unwelcome wrinkle on my face; and all the bloody mirror does is sit there on the wall in mute contempt, staring back, silently mocking me with its silvered glass and antique pine frame – while I suffer the devastation of growing older day by day, week by week, year by year.
To make matters worse, my Sunday morning ablutions today were accompanied by the soundtrack of McFly’s new album, the bland and saccharine strains of which were drifting in through the open studio window. Their new album has been given away free today in the Mail On Sunday newspaper and some eager young fan was playing it at full volume a few doors down the street for the benefit of neighbours who had not yet had the chance to acquire a copy.
It is something of a fortunate detail that I use Bic safety razors and do not possess any of the old-fashioned, cut-throat variety of shaving implements, because I felt like slashing my wrists – and probably would have done had I not had the good sense to go immediately downstairs and turn on the hi-fi.