Hack Writing

I appear to be afflicted with "Man Flu".

It's not flu, of course. It's just an extremely bad cold. I will, most certainly, live.

But this hasn't stopped the fun at my expense from some of the ladies in my life - especially if I make the mistake of croaking slightly in public. "Ooh dear, got Man Flu, have we? Have a lie down, love, we'll take care of everything..." etc., the tone leaving no doubt as to the unspoken approbation - if I was a woman, I'd be getting on with life.

So, enough. This is bollocks, okay? I haven't slept for nearly three days. I can only breath through half of one nostril. My bone marrow is the temperature of liquid helium, my forehead could be used to fry eggs, and my eyeballs are made of sand. I can hardly complete a sentence without coughing up phlegm. And yet, supposedly, you X:X types could cope with all this, and still complete your tax-return while windsurfing.

No. You. Bastard. Couldn't.

There are big colds, and there are little colds. This is a big one. The windsurfing kind, they're the little ones. Got that? Good.

Blues Sunday

The Cardiff Blues host Leinster at the Mill, and the enlightened decision to price tickets at £10 encourages me to take Hev along to further her indoctrination in the ways of egg-chasing.

A fun time is had by all as the Blues win a try-fest. A few Irishmen hanging around after the FA Cup final enhace the atmosphere with a bit of Blarney.

"I really enjoyed that!" says my beloved as we leave the stadium in the spring dusk. My work here is almost done!

Silly French

There is a word that has languished in the in-tray of my subconscious for some time, without my realising it. This word is Shampooing. Now, as a conjugation of the verb "Shampoo" - meaning to wash one's hair - it's common enough, but it's always had a weird, un-finger-put-onnable extra quality. Something haunting, elusive, and evocative of mystery barely understood, let alone explained.

So there I was today, sitting in a bath, searching for amusement in the absence of a rubber duck, a radio, or an erection. I alighted on one of those little sachets of complimentary hotel shampoo; liberated, no doubt, on some wild adventure behind enemy lines. The legend read "Shampoo / Shampooing". Given leisure to consider this, I realised that yes, they always say that, don't they? I had simply ever cared before. Logic therefore leads me to imagine that Shampooing must be a foreign word for the noun Shampoo. Most likely, French. A quick Google confirms this.

Well, come on - this is pretty wild, isn't it? Wouldn't we expect that most elegant of languages to have derived something more like Shampeau or Shampur? Shampooing is so daft, clunky, and un-French. And it's an ing word, for the love of... that can't be a noun, you daft messieurs!

Having, however, accepted this (very silly) fact, may I now suggest that time, resources and effort are spared by simply labelling shampoo sachets with Shampooing? A French speaker will think "Ah, it's shampoo", while an anglophone will likewise deduce "Ah, it's for shampooing" - job done, either way, and seven whole letters saved. That's got to be a couple of trees, or half a dolphin, or something?