I'm less worried about the Corona thing than my wife.

I spend approximately 60/70 hours per week in a suit. I look (moderately) smart and take a modicum of care over my appearance.

    That, of course, is in normal times. As we know these aren't normal times and I'm stuck at home with my beautiful, wonderful accommodating wife. Thus last week I thought: why should I bother to shave? I mean there's no one to see me.

    I've never had a beard in my life. They tend to frown on that sort of thing in the Royal Marines -  some sort of piddling excuse about gas masks not working properly and us dying from nerve agents chucked by some miscreant country or group of troublemakers. That kind of drivel.

    So I was quite surprised when my fuzz grew at a respectable rate, only, like my eyebrows, it turned out to be blond, or more accurately grey-ish.

    That's where the imminent death part comes in. Apparently, if I don't shave it off by tonight, then tonight will be my last dawn, if you see what I mean.

    My wife's infatuation with sharp things has always discomfited me somewhat. 

    It's a tough one. The supermarket shelves are completely bereft of machine guns.