Traffic was bad in Bangor town centre this morning so I’m running a little late. The roads were backed up for miles after a horse and carriage got clipped by a bus. There were guts everywhere and frightened pensioners as far as the eye could see.
I’ve been down to the gym to work myself out of the funk I found myself in yesterday. The emails I've had from you kind readers went a long way to bringing me back to my senese but it's sweat that seems to bring out the best in me. There's nothing like exercising in a sports thong for making you see all that's wonderful about the world. I can't recommend it enough.
Anyway, I’m feeling much better, though I’m slightly concerned by the looks I’ve been getting on account of my pink hair. When I said the other day that I was intending to let it grow out, that was only based on the reaction of the woman in the local off license. My visit to the gym suggests that I should rethink my plans.
I got there at nine o’clock, which is the quietest time of the day. The managerial types have finished their pre-workday workouts but it’s still to early for all the mothers who are only then finishing the school runs and wouldn’t arrive for another half hour or so. I had the machines to myself and I had worked up a good sweat by nine fifteen when the gym began to fill. And that’s when Belcher arrived.
Tony Belcher runs a dog grooming salon in town. He’s also a fanatical body builder, which makes him something of an icon in the gym. I can’t say I ever take much notice of him. I’m happy with my body as it is and don’t want the sort of muscles that take on personalities of their own, let alone require their own driving license. In turn, Belcher doesn’t often take much notice of me. He probably thinks of me as being too skinny and is perhaps a little put out by my stunning good looks. Despite his physique, the man’s got the face of a grandmother's elbow. Today, however, there was a marked change to his attitude towards me.
There’s only one word I know of that describes the moment that Belcher saw me. He ‘swooned’.
‘That’s it!’ he cried, coming over to where I was on the rowing machine. I tried to row faster but he quickly reached me. ‘That’s the colour we’ve been looking for!’
‘Is it?’ I asked.
‘It is. You’re coming with me, son,’ he said. ‘This is the most important thing you’ll ever do.’
And with that, he physically manhandled me from the rowing machine, tucked me under his arm, and carried me out in the car park. No abduction has been performed in so publicly, yet everybody stood around watching as I was strapped into the back seat of an Audi and driven away.
Five minutes later, we arrived at his grooming salon. There, the whole operation worked in reverse. I was dragged screaming from the car and into the building where he dropped me on a stool among a throng of shampoos and conditioners meant for dogs suffering bad hair days.
A minute later, he returned followed by a woman.
‘Meet Foo Foo Trixabelle Harmatidge Spandex Cherry Blossom the Third,’ he said.
I thought it all a bit much for such a hard frostbitten woman of some fifty years.
‘Do I just call you Foo Foo?’ I asked.
Belcher grumbled a laugh and lifted up the lead he was holding and directed my eyes down to his feet. That’s when I saw the stoat busily sniffing the hem of his trouser leg.
‘Is that a stoat?’ I asked.
‘A pedigree stoat,’ he replied. ‘A champion stoat. This is actually Wales's champion stoat. And your hair is the perfect match. Don’t you think so, Kathy?’
Kathy took hold a fistful of my scalp and held it up to the light.
‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘It’s just what we’ve been looking for.’
I had no say in what happened next. I was still looking at Kathy when I heard a loud ‘snip’ and felt my energy drain right away. Belcher held up a long tress of my hair which shone pink in the sunlight. I thought I could hear every beautiful strand screaming in terror.
‘You don’t know what a help you’ve been,’ Belcher said before he guided me out to the front of the shop. He paused a moment to open the till and withdrew a £20 note which he thrust into my hand. ‘A great help,’ he said and pushed me out of the shop.
It was a fifteen minute walk back to the gym, dressed in only my vest and a pair of loose exercise shorts that hid my sports thong. I was also missing a large portion of my hair, though that which remained was enough to encourage some witty remarks from the public.
The whole thing has been a horrible episode and I’ve booked into see my hairdresser this afternoon. Not only is my ponytail ruined but I fear that my hair is made a mockery by the knowledge that it’s the same shade of pink as Wales’ champion stoat.
