May I just take this opportunity to wish all of my readers a
wonderful Christmastime, a bit like Paul McCartney and Wings did back in the
1970s, but I have my doubts doubt whether he actually paid for a round of
drinks in the public house filmed the accompanying video in. Bah.
Well, I've currently popped back home to the flat, ostensibly to 'stretch my legs',
but mainly because I want to get away from Father and Auntie Barb, not
forgetting Jon Jon, Captain Beefcake and Priscilla Duckweed. Yes,
they're cats, they're frigging cats - spoiled furry bastards the lot of them.
After a Christmas dinner consisting of three
pork chops, some ‘pigs in blankets’ and an array of tired vegetables, I went to
investigate the third bedroom which is to become my ‘pad’ after January. It was depressing to say the least – it was
inch high in cat fur and smelt of flea powder.
Barb followed me upstairs and moaned that her ‘babies’ had got very used
to lying on the single bed and would most probably retain their position on the
top of the Holly Hobbie duvet cover whether I was resident or not. Nice.
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