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popping into Boots to sort out my other imperfections. But incredibly, they had nothing to prevent premature balding. There were entire sections devoted to bladder weakness and hair removal products but nothing to keep my precious remaining follicles on my head.
    It reminds me of a group of Parisian students who formed the Suicide Club in the 1850s. Their manifesto declared that all members should kill themselves before the age of thirty, or before they went bald — whichever came first. If I had drawn the last ticket in the lottery of life — born 150 years ago in France with suicidal bohemian tendencies — I fear I would have been one of the first to go.
Tuesday 8th February
    After re-reading my little masturbation monologue entry from the weekend, I began to worry that I was a slightly unpleasantperson. Not to mention shallow, perverted, sly, verbose, vindictive, competitive, inept, jealous and lonely. I mentioned this to Flatmate Fred on Monday and he decided that I had overdosed on male company and was in need of some counterbalancing feminine input. So we decided to invite some girls around for pancakes this evening, Shrove Tuesday.
    Katie was away with Rick for their parents’ wedding anniversary party, so it was just Claire (doctors ’n’ nurses), Mel (first kiss) and Susie (first shag). Mel and Susie were caught up in their usual battle for the attention of Flatmate Fred who was at his metrosexual best tossing pancakes in the kitchen. So I had a bit of time to spend with doctors ’n’ nurses. Ironically, Claire is now a doctor and going out with a male nurse. It’s funny how these things change. When we were toddlers, I was always in charge of the stethoscope.
    â€˜Claire,’ I ask. ‘You’ve known me ever since I was an itch in my alpha male ’rental’s pants. Why am I so unhappy at the moment?’
    â€˜Well, let’s see. You hate your job, you’ve just left your girlfriend in an ugly scene involving your best mate, you’re getting fat, you’re hopelessly in lust with a colleague who’s twenty miles out of your league and you’re beginning to lose your hair.’
    â€˜I’m what?’
    â€˜Your hair, darling, your former hair. You’re going bald. Your hairline is retreating like a polar icecap.’
    â€˜What, five metres per year?’
    Claire’s the first person to point this out to me. It’s official now.
    â€˜But why don’t you do something about it all?’ she asks.
    â€˜About the hair? There’s nothing to be done about the hair. I’m not having transplants. It costs a bomb and it looks lame.’
    â€˜No, dummy, the hair’s fine. Balding men are sexy. Testosterone-packed. I mean the rest of your wretched life. Why don’t you take some affirmative action to sort it out?’
    This is quite a revelation. She’s right. I, Jack Lancaster, can sort this all out myself. I am not some piece of flotsam at the mercy of the waves of fate. I have a mind of my own. I can do anything I want. I am in the driving seat of my life.
    I am still smiling about this abstract thought when we’re all sitting down later and discussing what to give up for Lent.
    Predictably, the three girls are all renouncing chocolate for forty days. I wonder what student chocolate activist Leila would make of this. None of them is overweight, so they’re not doing it for cosmetic reasons. Apparently, it’s about self-denial, an appreciation of life’s essentials.
    â€˜Oh toss,’ I protest. ‘It’s the gastronomic version of tantric sex — delayed pleasure. Waiting a few weeks allows you to enjoy stuffing your face on Easter Day without feeling guilty. And in the meantime you feel empowered and feminine. “Oooh, what are you giving up for Lent? Chocolate? Oh you’re
so
brave.”’
    â€˜I am brave,’ sniffs Mel. ‘You can’t understand how chocolate