Getting a haircut in the middle of winter is never a good idea (especially just before a snow trip), but it had to be done.

The cold weather leaves me tempted to stay in bed all day, to not get up at all. But it had to be done.

Oh well, it may not be enjoyable, but the cold and rain at least wake you up in the morning once you’re out in it.

Living in the western world in the 21st century, many of us are protected from the elements, cocooned from anything above or below 20 degrees C by our houses with thermostats and our cars. But being out in the weather makes you feel so alive.

One of my fondest memories is from my early twenties, one Sunday summer afternoon we caught outside without transport in the depths of suburbia, when it started pissing down rain. Warm rain.

Rather than run for shelter, we just kept walking and talking, our clothes getting steadily more drenched. It helped spark the conversation, heightened the senses.

Not that I’d advocate never carrying an umbrella or a raincoat, or leaving the heating turned off permanently. But you don’t need to go bungee jumping to feel alive — sometimes the simple little things in life can help get the senses tingling.

The Mobile Blood Bank is back in my neck of the woods this week, and because it’s so inconvenient to get to their Southbank outlet (inlet?) I try to make a point of going as often as I can.

So I planned to go along on this afternoon after picking up the kids from school (Tuesday is my short work day). It pays to book, as one time I merrily went along and found they were completely booked-out.

They generally send a letter advising of their imminent arrival, then ring later in the week to ask if you want to book. So I thought I’d await their call. Sure enough they rang on Friday.

The problem? They were already fully booked on Monday and Tuesday, and most spots taken on Wednesday and Thursday. Really, it was hardly worth them ringing.

Now, I think giving blood is a good thing to do. The Blood Service frequently advertise for more donors. But they don’t make it easy, with mobile branches booked-out, and permanent branches in inconvenient locations with inconvenient hours. I think they’re under-resourced.

Hey, wait a minute. They now have a branch in Bourke Street. When did that happen? Maybe things are improving.

Anyway, a happy ending. They rang back yesterday to say they’d found a slot at precisely the right time: 3:45pm today. Excellent.

PS 5:20pm: Apparently my blood-pressure is 115 over 70, and my blood count is 162. Or is it 16.2?

When I last went to the dentist, they said I had a touch of gingivitis, and suggested mouthwashing for a couple of weeks.

It’s obviously pretty powerful stuff, because apart from any cleaning it’s doing, it makes my teeth look horrible, in a way that mere toothpaste can’t fix. My teeth now resemble those of Peter Street (the Architect of the original Globe Theatre) in Saturday’s Doctor Who. It’s not a pretty sight.

So I stopped on the mouthwash for a bit.

I resumed a few weeks ago, and I’m heading off to the dentist again today, so hopefully that’ll be enough, and they can then thoroughly clean my teeth again so they don’t look like I’m from the 16th century anymore, and I’ll be able to grin at people again without getting funny looks.

Update 11pm. The dentist had to get out the big guns to get the mouthwash stain off. It was like sandblasting my teeth. He’s now put me onto an alternative brand which apparently won’t cause discolouration.

What a week.

I already mentioned a colleague’s mother-in-law and an ex-colleague of mine passing away last weekend. I went to the latter funeral today. The family are understandably very upset at his unexpected death at 63. They had a nice booklet with a eulogy that talked in detail about his life. Nice touch.

Just before the funeral I got some health news about someone, which I won’t divulge just now.

Then when I got back home after the funeral I got the news that a guy I know was hit by a tram this morning in Victoria Parade. He’s off the critical list now, and is stable, though there’s some risk of brain damage.

Definitely one of those weeks.

From the 1st of July, pubs and clubs will be smoke-free. No more stinky hair after a night out. No more washing all your clothes the next day.

So! Who’s for a drink? Let’s hit the pubs!

(In preparation, the local RSL built a smoking area, which looks like an outdoor courtyard, but is almost completely surrounded by frosted glass and a shelter, so I bet it meets the definition of an enclosed space… Mind you I’d prefer they used frosted glass rather than something that lets the smoke out more easily, since I don’t want it coming my way across the footpath.)

Maggie, the station host, noticed a passenger who looked unwell. Really unwell.

She tried to convince her to come into the office to sit down.

The lady didn’t want to. She wanted to catch her train; she was going to see her doctor. Paraphrased:

“Please come in and sit down. You look unwell. I think I’d better call you an ambulance.”

“What if I ring your doctor? What’s his number?” Rings.

“Even your doctor says call an ambulance! I’m ringing it now!”

“I’m good. Thank you — I was about to have a stroke. You saved my life.”

I may never save a life. But if I’m ever in that position, I hope I have the presence of mind to know what to do.

When will I learn? Last week someone at work had fundraiser chocolate for sale. Two bars and $4 later… This week? Pimples.

I seem to be getting a pot belly, too. Well, a little bit. No danger of going up to the next trouser size… yet.

Need to keep decreasing the inputs (better diet) and increasing the outputs (more exercise). I confess, the grand plan of riding my bike every weekend has come off the rails, too. Bad me.

Of course, efforts to lay off the chocolate for a bit have already come unstuck. Apart from Easter next week, I just won an Easter hamper.

At least the fluffy toys won’t give me pimples.

Warning: This post has been flagged TMI (Too Much Information). You have been warned.

Hair on my head gets lopped off by the barber every month or two; whenever it seems to long (getting wavy at the top is usually the indicator for me) and I have the inclination to stop looking like a long-haired weirdo (as I often did in my teens) and get it cut.

Facial hair comes off daily with my electric razor, a Philishave, except Sundays when I generally don’t bother shaving. If I’m in a rush it can sometimes be less than a precision operation, leaving a few strays behind. (Was it Billy Connolly who talked about the cunning hairs that lie down when they see a blade coming?)

Nasal hair sometimes grows alarmingly fast, and will occasionally get plucked. (Past experiments with this have proven somewhat painful at times.)

Little hairs seem to spout out of my ears, too. I don’t know if this is an argument against Intelligent Design, but what the purpose of this is, I really don’t know. When they’re too numerous, tweezers can get them out.

Underarm hair? Gets a very occasional trim when it seems excessively bushy. The shaver has a beard trimmer, which, given I never have a beard (tried it once, didn’t like it) can get used for this.

Back, leg and chest hair I leave well alone, though sometimes a lone hair will grow out of a mole on my back, until (with great difficulty) it’s plucked out.

Which just leaves… well, the rest. As it happens, this can get pretty hairy — and yes, occasionally, it deserves a trim too. Very careful use of the scissors is generally what’s required. Wouldn’t want to catch anything other than hairs in the blades, after all. I don’t think I’d go the full shave thing, but I know that some people out there do.