In which I have my legs waxed.

So anyway, I am having my legs waxed. The woman applying the wax is a friend who lives and waxes in my village, and so we chat away. I ask if she has seen a mutual friend of ours called Jack recently. "Oh!" she says, "He has been really poorly recently!"

So I do the appropriate amount of 'Oh dears!' and enquire as to what was the cause of his illness, and she explains and says he is now on the mend but that he will unfortunately not be able to take part in the Parish Marathon.

"Blimey!" thinks I. "I know I don't get out and about in the village so much these days, but I didn't even realise there was going to be a Parish Marathon." However, I don't want to admit to the level of my ignorance so I go along with the conversation and say what a shame it is that he will miss the marathon. "Yes" continues my friend as she slaps on the wax, "And there were so many people coming along to watch him. Some were driving, some were going on the train and others were flying." "Flying to watch Jack in the marathon?" I ask whilst wondering where the bloody hell they were intending to fly to. We don't exactly live near any major airport - although we are handily placed for the M1. "Oh yes," says she as she whips a load of leg hair off my right calf and I cry out in agony. "But they have all decided to go anyway and will make a weekend of it." "Well", says I - now struggling to prolong the conversation about the Parish Marathon - "I hope they can find enough to entertain themselves over an entire weekend, marathon apart." "Oh" she says, "I'm sure they will. I have never been to Paris myself, but I'm sure there is plenty to keep them occupied for a couple of days."

I nod wisely and say I expect there probably is.

"Bikini line?" she asks.

"Pass" says I.