In T'Net

I had a babysitter in at Derrig Towers last night. I wanted to check out what it might be like if I should ever have to make actual arrangements to care for any of the many and various possibly Derrig-sprogs scattered across the globe and further.

Now, I don't know about you. Well, clearly I don't - you could be anyone happening to stumble over me in the weird world of bloggery - you could indeed be a total loon. But if you bear even the least passing resemblance to that marvel of our judicial system, to wit the Chap on the Clapham Trambus, you will of course share my opinion that one does not turn to the babysitters of this world for elucidation.

WRONG! (As JB has it.)

For she was a fount of the most esoteric erudition, and especially so on the matter of the trichologicalisticalotomic arts, or 'hair and "do's"'.

She went for hours about it while I supped on a particularly fine brandy and chomped on a Ginster's 'Megameal' pasty-in-a-tube.

I waited until she finished before exposing unto her my own hair care bunch of advisory tips, thus:

1. Get the best product available, use it liberally, aim for maximum follicle erectility;

2. Rub it in well, using the fingertips. Rub it in. Rub, rub, rub. Not too firmly. Rub. Rub, rub, rub. Mmmmmmmmm. Rub. Rub. Rub, rub, rub. Ooooooooooooh. Oh yes! Rub. Rub. Rub. Aaaaaah. Rub-rub. Come on, Monty! Rub, rub, rubby-rub, rub, rub, rub. Yesiree, hose me down with mulligatawny. Rub, rub. Rubby-rub. And.....done! Take a long bath, you've earned it.

3. Keep your beau locks in a net at night.

She was well-impressed I can tell you, but unfortunately managed to escape through a window I had left unlocked round the back.