Bad behaviour

Best mates (www.zandrascreations.com)

When we moved to Switzerland from London, we knew no-one and agreed to accept all invitations… which led to some stupendously dull evenings.

At one such, Mr McG and I were on separate tables, and whereas I resorted to liquor, quickly getting ratfaced and challenging (fact: shouting “you’re all so fucking BORING” doesn’t work), Mr McG spent the evening bonding with a wee scottie dog, hand-feeding him choice morsels from his plate.

All this to say, by the end of that year we were gagging to see some mates and planned to spend New Year’s eve up in Yorkshire with a whole bunch.

In preparation, i went to a random hairdresser for a trim and highlights. Now, as any expat knows, one of the two most fraught things to find in a new country is a good hairdresser. (The other being a non-creepy gynecologist.) Sure enough, I came home looking like Bernie Hunt (no, you don’t need to know) with an orange-striped pudding-bowl cut.

My family fell about laughing; I had a serious sense-of-humour failure and refused to countenance flying north the next day.

Mr McG had a brainwave: a wig!

So off we drove into Geneva. Alas, by 9pm on a Saturday evening, the only wig shops still open catered exclusively for ladies of the night...

I cried buckets and took a hat instead.

In the event, my haircut was eclipsed by some spectacularly bad behavior, which some people might pay me good money not to reveal.

Although, on reflection, others might cough up to hear the gruesome details. Hmm. Looks like a win-win situation to me.

The original Bernie