Wire in the blood

Today, I had my ears pierced. Now, maybe going to Claire’s Accessories (cheesy high street little-girls’ store) to have this done wasn’t the greatest of ideas. Not that thy did a bad job - on the contrary, in fact. But I was sharing the ear-piercing queue with an assortment of munchkins who were all having their ninety-ninth piercing at the age of five. So my (I think understandable) nervousness made me a cause of great hilarity to seemingly every adult in the whole of Swansea. As her small child happily ascended the piercing-chair, one mother turned to me and said “he’s shaming you now, isn’t he?” - and I had to admit that he was. She went on to explain that the young man would only be having the one ear pierced, because “he’d look gay otherwise”. Well, I just hope they did the correct ear, that’s all I can say, or he’s doomed to a life of deviant sexual behaviour and frilly underwear. Poor lad.

Anyway, my own turn finally came, and a very lovely young lady of eleven (though I could have sworn she was about my age, what with the make up and so on) assured me that it wouldn’t hurt at all and that I should be brave, as I most likely wouldn’t faint. And indeed, she turned out to be right. I’d assumed that she was waiting in the queue behind me, but one my ears were satisfactorily manhandled, she wished me good luck and strolled off. Well, we all need cheerleaders sometimes, eh?