The Heat of the Blade

I can’t help but feel that part of the purpose of writing a blog is to let people into who you are and what you think about a little more than on a cursory level. Very often I find myself wanting to write things that might be construed as critical or maybe quizzical of a situation, but hold back from doing so in case this could impact on some future job, or something like that. God knows, I have strong enough opinions on enough topics.

The alternative, which is anonymous blogging, wouldn’t be for me either. I see little point in writing something that will probably never be read by anyone. But I don’t want to always write simple lists of ‘likes’ and ‘don’t-likes’ and to do something that’s intellectually lightweight. And then I don’t want writing a blog to become a vanity exercise either. Much like my career, I’m far better at knowing what I don’t want to do than what I do.

So, returning to my first point, about letting people into who you are. I thought that I’d address some of the strange things in my character that other people wouldn’t necessarily be aware of. One that has been uppermost in my mind recently is a mild case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder that I seem to have with regard to shaving. So far in my life I’ve been quite lucky to have worked or studied in environments where I could get away without shaving (actually I’ve also found myself in environments where I could dress as I please, over the most recent years). No more. I now have a relatively straightforward job, where I wear a shirt and tie to work, and am expected to meet certain standards of appearance. I have no beef with this, apart from the fact that I get to wear my favourite clothes less often, and that I now have to shave, every day.

This has led to the growth of the aforementioned neurosis associated with shaving. For some reason I have a very powerful memory for a few things. Useless bits of trivia, things people have said that I’ve been surprised by, faces (I almost never forget a face – even of people I’ve only shared a train with – I’m hoping I can help Crimewatch one day); that sort of thing. I also have a good memory for things my parents say. My Dad may say something to me when I’m at home at Christmas, and then repeat it (unknowingly) when I’m at home at Easter. So, several years ago, my Dad was telling me about how over many years of shaving, he’s concluded that the heat of the blade is the most important factor. This was repeated again at some point, unwittingly, and it’s now completely lodged in my brain.

Lodged to a frightening extent. Now, when I go to have a shave, I turn the tap on, until it’s hot, then leave the razor under it, in the sink. All the while, this voice runs through my head, saying “theheatofthebladetheheatofthebladetheheatoftheblade”. It’s worrying me. I know this must all sound very David Beckham, but seriously, I hope I can shake it soon.

When I was at school, my mate Carthy used to have an obsession whereby if he didn’t write out his words properly, someone would die. This resulted in him inking over words until he tore through the paper, and it carried on until he got shouted at by a teacher to stop. He never did it again.

But I don’t have anyone to stop me. Theheatofthebladetheheatofthebladetheheatoftheblade. Argh.