It was a tepid December day in Florida when you decided that you wanted to look like Michael Caine. You ran through all the options, talked it over with your loved ones, weighed the risks vs. benefits, talked with the plastic surgeon, and consulted various religious authorities. It broke down like this:

The religious authorities shrugged and told you to do whatever you liked. Your loved ones all said you look fine, and besides, there is nothing wrong at all with looking like Forest Whitaker, sleepy eyes and all. The plastic surgeons all smiled and said of course, of course, we can do this for you.

You sold your condo, your Goldwing, your Harley, your Wallstreet powerbook, even your signed Richard Dean Anderson 8×10. You lumped it all together and it was a few bucks shy of the total, but it was close enough. The surgeons knocked off a few for good behaviour.

Flash forward three weeks: You feel great. Tall, slim, dignified, so very English. You are destitute. Broke, even. You have not a penny to your name, you have alienated your friends and no longer have a place to lay your head. But what the hell. You look like Michael Caine, and Michael Caine can do anything.