A Chin as Bald as an Easter Egg

And an eye as colourful as one...

But first, you'll want to know about the chin. Prepare yourself.

Yanda has shaved! I have no beard. It's gone. And damn I'm good-looking! Vicki doesn't seem to think so, but the consensus from every other women I've talked to is that they were surprised to find me not ugly once the whiskers were removed. I suspect Vicki's reaction is one of simple jealousy.

My apologies for not having any photos. I considered sticking my face on the scanner but was frightened the powerful, image-sucking light would make me blind. One should not toy with technology. It is a powerful and amoral force.

You may be wondering why I risked scraping a sharpened piece of metal across my face. ART is the reason why! I had a role to play and as we in the film and televisual arts know only too well. If you want the part you have to wear the frock.

I am now (he said smugly) a member of the British Academy of Film and Televisual Arts. The reasons are a bit vague. I think it has more to do with my job title than anything I've actually accomplished. But, still, I get to see some free flicks and it allows me to buy a ticket to the BAFTAs, which are the British equivalent of the Oscars, so that's pretty cool.

But back to verisimilitude and ART and sacrificing for one's fans. I have to admit the role wasn't in a feature film or a television show or a play or even a streamed internet promo. It was actually a costume party. Vicki and I were invited to a party where we had to come as our favourite cult TV show. We were also invited to a different party on the very same night where the theme was 70s disco.

Before you become too envious of our lifestyle, I should point out that these were the third and fourth house parties we've attended in the two years we've been in England.

So, faced with the dilemma of which party to dress for, we decided to go with a cult TV show set in the seventies and dressed up as Starsky and Hutch. Starsky has no beard and so it had to go.

We rented some guns and shoulder holsters from an impressively camp out of work actor at a theatrical costume shop and hit the charity shops to find some appropriate clothing. Vicki dyed her hair blonde; it didn't work very well -- she just ended up a slightly lighter red. She also strapped her boobs down with a scarf and stuffed a roll of socks down her trousers. Both parties were quite fun and I believe the costumes went over well, although it's difficult to tell as all anyone talked about was my new shiny, happy face.

The colourful eye: now that's a slightly more embarrassing story and a good parable about the evils of drink. It's actually faded now, but it used to be as colourful as an Easter Egg.

A week before the party, a number of my co-workers and I went out for a drink after work. There were two problems with this plan. One was that we ended up drinking wine all night. The other was that a man named Nick was a member of the party. Nick enjoys winding me up by making disparaging comments about that great bland nation of our birth, Canada. The bizarre thing about Nick is that his criticism are so off-base. Whenever people attack my homeland with valid criticisms, I pretty much just try to fade into the woodwork. Nick doesn't do this. He always picks the oddest, most inaccurate things to attack. The attack that night was about how we didn't have seasons in Canada. Any sane human being would see this criticism, coming as it did from a citizen of a nation where the weather for 11.9 months of the year is "Overcast and chilly with a chance of rain", as laughable nonsense. I tried pointing this out to him -- that the fact that we had freezing cold for part of the year with blizzards and snow drifts and ice-skating was actually a fairly strong indication that we did have seasons. And the fact that we had a discernible spring and hot dry summers and a fall where the leaves actually turned colour also tended to support this thesis.

He refused to accept any of this and when pressed would just bring up Celine Dion which would quiet me down a bit. Not much I can say in defence of that, really, is there? But then he'd wind me up again with some vacuous comment. In the end I reacted by attacking Britain in exchange. I remember at one point shouting that Britain was nothing but a swamp dotted with pyres of burning sheep. This is probably an unwise thing to shout at the top of one's lungs in an English pub.

Another of Nick's recurring themes was the phrase "Canada, what is it good for?" He gave no credence to the fact that we had the largest reserves of fresh water in the world, or that we had invented the snowmobile and Shania Twain's navel. I was forced into accusing Britain of being nothing but a "faded celebrity country, once grand but now sagging, and the only reason anyone still paid attention to her was that she used to be important and still had money". Again, sentiments best left unvoiced when arguing in an English pub.

Fortunately, however, we were in a Mexican bar in Covent Garden crowded with tourists, so no one did actually punch me in the head...

However, some higher power did take matters into their own hands to see that I was suitably chastened. A divine ankle tripped me as I was walking down some steps and I slammed my face into a wall and ended up with a black eye. This I recognised as a sign from above and decided I should shut up and go home. Whereupon I promptly threw up, only the second time this has happened to me because of drink and I have vowed it will be the last.

I think, perhaps, the clean-shaven look might be a subconscious attempt to become a more decent citizen.

I was a bit disturbed by just how venomous my comments were. They obviously revealed some hidden dissatisfactions that have been building up lately. Thus, I think it's a very good thing that Vicki and I are off to try to find fault with a couple of other European nations over the next couple of months.

On Thursday we're off to (I've always wanted to say this!) spend a week at a friend's villa in the South of France. And may I just add, "nyaah, nyaah, nyaah!"

And in June, we're off to do a tour of the Thoms' relatives in Germany for three weeks. I am somewhat terrified of having to appear the dutiful husband to all those stern, efficient Germans, but I figure if I can pull off streetwise David Starsky, this should be no problem. Besides, now that I'm clean-shaven I suspect I ooze respectability.

France also fills me with fear. All those years of mandatory French lessons only succeeded in making me feel deeply guilty about how poorly I speak the language. I'm seriously thinking of telling everyone I meet that I'm from Idaho.

I hope all is well with all of you, and you have a very pleasant Spring.