Being a metrosexual

In which I am some groomed facial hair away from being a hipster.

I’ve not changed out of my slob clothes all day, sitting here in a grey t shirt and sweatpants and combing my hair with my fingers. I’ve not taken too much consideration over my appearance because the only people who will see me today aren’t going to be too bothered.

So it is strange that until not that long ago I had people calling me a metrosexual. Apparently because I was a  hip, man about town who took pride in his appearance. Which is all kinds of ridiculous because I’ve never had the inclination to make enough effort to be image-proud.

Apparently this categorisation of my appearance was based on a number of factors, all of which can be easily explained as laziness.
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Read me to sleep

In which I drift off to a good book, or Life of Pi.

I have four bookcases with 600 books. They range from a history of the bible to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson via Marx and bridges. From Roald Dahl to Jose Saramago through Hugo and Melville. Like everything else in my life there is an eclectic mix of topics. Also like everything else they are just sitting there collecting dust.

I was once able to set myself a target of reading fifteen books a year, and could achieve that. A combination of plenty of alone time and a comfortable toilet seat meant I could power through a book in a week or so. Now I seem to take an age just to get through a chapter. I love reading, but what can I do to read more?

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