I had to go up to a site meeting in Longtown this morning. Some bas-tard decided to have it at 8 oâclock, so I needed to get up and out the door for half five. With four bambinos, itâs like a 24 hour Wacky Warehouse at my gaff now, so I got about two hours kip, scraped some vom off my suit and skedaddled up the road. I got near the site with about 45 minutes to spare, and being absolutely ballbagged, decided to have a quick gonk in a layby. Fifty minutes later, I woke up. My phone alarm hadnât gone off and I was late. I blazed down the road for the last mile and skidded into the site, just as they were all introducing themselves. I grabbed my files and jumped out of the car. When I got close, I realised that an ex-squaddy mate, Mick, was running the meeting, so started to relax. âAlright, Mick?â I shouted. He eyeballed me, then moved away from the group and walked over to me. âFcuking, hell, Convoy. You look like fcuking Columbo. Show parades tonight mate, showing âFace Ironed.ââ I didnât peg what he meant until I got back to the car, after the thankfully short meeting. I checked my grid out in the mirror. Because Iâm 36, my skin is beginning to lose some of its elasticity. That short power kip had crumpled up the entire right side of my face. It looked like John Merricks ballbag. It really could have done with a good pressing. Added to that, my hair had a distinct Flock of Seagulls look to it. I am turning into a bag of sh-it. Anyone else?