Moustaches. Know what I mean? The fuzzy, whiskery bristles that sprout above the lip, under the nostrils. It does weird and wacky things to contrasting people.
See what a mouser did for Charlie Chaplin. Made him a mint and made us laugh. Think, too, what one of them did for Hitler. The madman lived with one life-long and died with it, meticulously trimmed, so he’d look smart in his Berlin bunker when they found him, having taken his own life.
I’m mentioning mousers because in the wake of the US National Moustache Championships held in New Orleans in September, the world championships will be staged in Germany this month. Hitler competes in the posthumous category. You’ll want to be reminded that I once cultivated a moustache, a source of amusement to my colleagues for a couple of years. On reflection, more bother that it was worth, so much debris can congeal there.
A mouse’s tale
Don’t get trapped in Tesco. Whatever you do, don’t say cheese. The superstore was fined £45,000 when a “super mouse” was discovered tucking into raw chicken in their Covent Garden branch.
Twice the size of a normal rodent and the court heard that the London branch of Tesco reportedly have had six breaches of hygiene. Could that happen here? Don’t ask me, I’m not a health inspector.
Afterwords . . .
. . . something to set passers-by thinking, the hand-written scrawl, courtesy of Orson Welles, inside the window of Henri, the French deli on Morningside Road: “Ask not what you can do for your country. Ask what’s for lunch.” Orson’s a regular at Henri.