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As I age, I realise the likelihood of me being a famous writer, novelist or baker (childhood dream of mine there) is rather slim. In life, there is always someone who is better than you. Never, ever forget that. That way, you won’t expect too much of yourself. You got a high mark for your essay? There’s someone who did better. You made a lasagne without setting fire to yourself? Well done - but Gordon Ramsay’s version will step all over your cheese encrusted pasta mess. Anyway - my point is that upon realising my income probably won’t be made through writing, a proper job would have to be on the cards. And so that’s what I do. I work in retail and have done for the past four years, despite it chipping at my soul daily. There are so many jumpers to fold, so many customers to point to the toilets. One day I fear I will snap and bash my own head in with a steak tenderising mallet. Needless to say - I’m busy. And thus, an actual job in which I actually have to work, leads to me craving ‘time’. Time becomes precious. There is never enough of it. So I have learnt to appreciate time that I have to spare. Activities that eat into my time become the enemy. Taking off make-up. Pitting olives. And shaving. Necessary - yes, because without a razor across my skin, I would be a bear. A small hairy bear. If I allowed bear-ness to escalate, people may want to pick me up and cuddle me, but that’s not how I roll. It’s the whole- finding a razor, finding shaving foam.. etc. It takes an age. Although this advert from France has given me an ingenious solution to the never-ending issue of absent shaving foam.
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