house of wax

‘It’s hot!’, says the latest communique from ‘Gerry’, MD of ‘New Waterstone’s’ (as they really are calling it). ‘So focus on the basics.’ What? Eating? Sleeping? Do we even need to go into work? Unfortunately yes. We’ve got air conditioning so can’t complain. ‘It’s so cool in here!’, say the customers. ‘We could stay in here all day!’ ‘Please don’t’, I can’t help thinking.

Last night I went to a barbecue. It started out well. There were burgers, sausages, chicken, all the normal things you get at barbecues. Plus chocolate cake. Then it got dark, and I walked into the kitchen - onto a scene of horror. Paula, our hostess, waxes people for a living, but it isn’t just a job, it’s a party piece. Alex, her partner, was lying in the kitchen with wax stuffed up his nostrils, while everyone was gathered round watching as it was ripped away, along with a sizeable collection of hairs. It was like a Hogarth engraving of primitive surgery. Or a Satanic ritual. The anti-hair feeling was running high among the women present, taking on almost fascistic overtones. There was a definite feeling of: you’re next. I fled into the night with cries of ‘Back, sack and crack!’ echoing behind me like a demonic chant. I need to keep hold of all the hair I’ve got, even it it does sometimes make it look as though a colony of spiders live up my nose.

I suppose there must be people who get off on being waxed. I flick through a copy of Bizarre magazine (picked up for free at the Prince Charles cinema, I didn't buy it) in the hope of illumination: but they’re doing custard this month. A guy has sent a photo of himself in, naked and covered in clingfilm. In the letter he points out his ‘cute arse’ and then worries that this ‘sounds a bit gay’. Hmm, you’ve just sent a picture of your nude clingfilm-wrapped self into a national magazine and you’re worried about ‘sounding a bit gay’. I think if you’re going to worry about some aspect of yourself, there may be more pressing issues.