What if?

Every now and then, I respond to a piece of advice from H.I. which may - in some small way - save both of us from social embarrassment, if not outright exclusion.

It has been years since I have kept any whiskey in the house, but for the last couple of weeks, I have been in so much pain that mere Nurofen Plus - the only analgesic one is allowed to buy over the counter which contains a high enough proportion of codeine to make any difference at all - is just not enough. This - coupled with the fact that I have recently read Iain Bank's wonderful book on the Highland distilleries, and Waitrose has been offering some very attractive discounts on a number of single malts - has caused me to take up their attractive offers and not so much sneak a bottle or two into the flat, but march in proudly, holding it aloft and exclaiming, "Guess how much this was!"

It was not until my step-daughter was around one night as I was guzzling the stuff, that I discovered the ABV percentage of this particular brand, when she casually read it out to me from the label.

"Bloody Hell!" she exclaimed, "It's 59.6 percent! That's bloody lethal!"

I merely replied that - especially as I mixed water with it - that made it even more of a bargain at £25, and carried on getting quietly sozzled and trying to drown the pain of my raging face.

The other thing about my recent ailments is that it has made my face so sensitive, that I did not shave for about a week and a half as it would only have added to the daily misery. I do not have a luxurious growth of beard - it only grows around my chin and upper lip, in fact, in the form of a natural goatee. This is one of many physical characteristics that I have inherited from my late father.

Other attributes/afflictions that he has passed down to me include ridiculously long and gangly legs, large and bony hands (but not as large as his) a robust and thick growth of hair on my head (his stayed until his death aged 84), broad shoulders which tend to curve inwards in a classic bad posture and a neck to go with it. He started adult life at 6 feet 6 inches tall, but when he died he had slumped to just under 6 feet. Unfortunately, I have inherited my mother's teeth.

My brother and my eldest sister seem to have veered toward our mother's genes, but my other sister and I are almost carbon copies of our dad - and that includes some mental characteristics as well as physical ones.

Anyway, a couple of nights ago, I was looking in the mirror whilst brushing what teeth I have left, looking at my recent growth of facial hair and wondering - as I often have over the years - if I should exploit it in some vainglorious way by allowing it to grow and possibly shaping it to tidy it up a bit.

I have never let it grow any longer than about half an inch, so I really have no idea if it would be worth it, but it seems sad to go through all your male life without knowing what your beard would look like given the chance. Having said that, it is even sadder to grow some sort of scrubby thing just for reasons triggered by the male menopause, and so far I have resisted it - unlike various other people. Peter Gabriel and Gary Glitter spring to mind.

So as I completed my teeth-brushing, I formulated a fantastically good plan, then rushed into the kitchen to tell H.I. about it.

"Guess what?" I almost shouted, "I'm going to grow a 'Hitler' style moustache!"

She just looked wearily up and said, "No."

"But", I protested, "It would be funny!"

"No."

"So you don't think it would be a good idea then?"

"No."

So I didn't.

Last night I decided to give my poor liver a rest, and drank nothing but Chinese Green Tea, now that my face is subsiding and I have no valid excuse to drink whiskey.

During this rare interlude of a clarified state of mind, I remembered something so extraordinary, that I am amazed that it never occurred to me before.

When I was born, my father wore a small, square-inch of short, bristly, 'Hitler' style moustache beneath his nose, and continued to maintain it right up until I was around 9 years old. Because he wore it from when I was a baby, I never thought it strange - it was just part of who he was. I do remember him shaving it off, though.

He must have gone through the whole of WW2 wearing it, as he did his bit to prevent Adolph bringing his over the Channel to Blighty.

They say that in order to defeat the enemy, you need to know how he thinks - climb into his state of mind, so to speak. It's important to be able to climb back out when the battle has been won, though.