Hoxton Street

London. Life.

Hoxton Street

“Nice moustache!” said Kellen.

“Thanks…” acknowledged Charlie.

“You did this yourself?” asked Kellen.

“Obviously…” sighed Charlie. “I tried sending a message to the barber but he hasn’t responded.”

“The Turkish guy?” asked Kellen. “Did you try him on Insta?”

“Yes…” confirmed Charlie. “No response.”

“It doesn’t look too bad?” said Kellen. “It definitely makes you look more interesting.”

“Don’t be ridiculous…” dismissed Charlie. “It looks like I’ve shaved myself in the dark with a blunt butter knife. Now I know what it felt like for the convicts sent to Van Diemen's Land.”

“Really?” laughed Kellen.

“Forced to live in a country with no barbers, surviving on rations of rum and slow moving marsupials...” explained Charlie.

“Yes, I see what you mean…” grinned Kellen. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“What?” asked Charlie.

“You know, Christmas…” said Kellen. “Happens on December 25th, every year.”

“I know what Christmas is, obviously…” said Charlie. “Aren’t we still in lock-down?”

“They’ve just announced it today…” explained Kellen. “The virus has agreed to take five days off over Christmas so we can all get wasted on eggnog and mince pies.”

“I don’t even like eggnog...” sighed Charlie.

“Will you go back to see your family?” asked Kellen.

“I don’t think so…” replied Charlie. “Is that what we’re supposed to do? What if I’ve got an underlying condition?”

“Shallow self-obsession is not an underlying condition...” smiled Kellen.

“Rude…” objected Charlie. “I am not shallow. Maybe I’ll just send them some cheese? I’ll send them an effigy of myself, in cheese.”

“They’ll never know the difference...” grinned Kellen.

“Rude…” said Charlie. “Not inaccurate, but rude.”

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