Guido is utterly fearless. On a scale of one to ten in the fearless stakes I’d say he’s a solid nine and a half. You need look no further for evidence of his fearlessness than to witness Guido in the café kitchen decapitating a prawn or cooking multiple orders of French Toast. Naturally it will come as no surprise to anyone who regularly reads this blog to know I’m generally the opposite to fearless. I’m a total scaredy cat. On the terrified of nothing scale I barely register.
My irrational fear of all things silly began when I was very small and I accidentally confused the top of a tomato for a tarantula. Yes, back then my life as a tiny child was fraught with fears and danger. Like worrying about being accidentally sucked down the plug hole at the end of bath-time or some random ant crawling into my ear at the park and deciding to stick around and set up an entire colony in my brain. It was also around this time I developed my fear of men playing the bagpipes so I’m pretty sure it’s why as an adult I’ve never seriously considered dating a Scotsman. It was simply too risky as you never knew when he might suddenly start enthusiastically blowing into something.
Fears, particularly the stupid variety, are difficult to shake off. Escalators, for example, still make me panic. Every time I climb on one I fret about what would happen if my shoes laces got trapped in the inner workings and my body was agonisingly chewed up in the middle of the shopping mall. Fear makes my thoughts illogical, especially if something unexpectedly weird happens in our street and I’ll start to imagine I’m being secretly filmed for an anarchic episode of Candid Camera. Although I do realise being publically humiliated on national television could be worth getting jittery over, it’s nothing compared to being eaten alive by a staircase.
The great thing about fear is, it’s never rationed, there’s always plenty room for more. And so it goes on. Like worrying about whether my abnormal craving for Boston Baked Cheesecake means there’s actually a tape worm inside me the size of a fireman’s hose, or, like when I lay awake at 3am stupidly pondering what the chances are of me being falsely accused and convicted of murder. I’m a complete whacko. Obviously I’d appeal.
So when I got home last night I discovered Guido’s fearlessness in a new and daring way which involved a visit to the barber and a crew cut.
“I felt like a change so thought I’d be fearless with my hair,” he said running his fingers through absolutely nothing. Once I’d got over the initial shock I rubbed the back of his head where his man-bun used to live.
“You look like a USSR cosmonaught circa 1966.” Which I have to tell you in a post Glasnost way I was actually finding quite hot. “What time is the next Sputnik blastoff?”
Guido looked at his watch.
“According to mission control it’s T minus 30.” He started motioning upwards with his index finger. “How do you fancy coming into orbit with me upstairs in the loft? I could do with some practice with my re-entry.”
For some strange reason I did not find this worrying at all.