Christmas time

family here

father’s pissed on

cider and beer

threw up on the baby

and trod on the dog

whilst gran stuffed her face on

the whole chocolate log

Somewhat cloudy

The rain outside reminds me of the
grey holidays, building sand and cement castles in the
huddling next to the gas heater, and
turning on all the lights to try and get a tan.

The rain outside is a comfort, bringing back memories
stuck in a tent
with only a bottle of whisky for defence
and a pack of cards
in a sleeping bag cocoon.

When it falls, do you feel the
imprint on your skin?
The water has
touched so many, and brings its rememberance of
past experiences.

Grey is the colour of sharing, and
when I
splash in a
I’m touching lives from
across the world.

Dear Santa

Please note that my house is private property. After your visit last year, which cracked the brickwork in the chimney as you forced your way into my lounge before drinking all of my whisky, I want you to know that you are not welcome to visit on Christmas eve. This year, I intend to keep the fire burning in the hearth. I note that you ridiculous costume includes a highly flammable trim, and you will go up like a yuletide flare if you attempt to get into the house. Note also, that your reindeer should not land on my roof – no more slipping tiles, please – nor hover in the vertical space above the house. The effect of all of these beasts, who had evidently been well fed during the course of the evening, was most unpleasant last year and quite put me off my lunch. Besides which, there is only so much manure that I need for the roses. So don’t tempt me to have a venison lunch.

Bah humbug etc…

The film is going well, which is good.

Cars are evil. The one I was in last night was written off, thanks to some speeding crazy fool. And some ice. Luckily we are all alive and okay, aside from a little bruising. And there didn’t appear to be any serious injuries in the other cars.

Tonight I intend to teleport to set.

The airbag seemed to have exploded almost as soon as he saw the car coming towards him, it having spun out of control across the road. The impact was the sound of a metal balloon bursting. Smoke from the airbag filled the cabin. As he looked up, the first thought that went through his mind was “am I dead?”

“Ho ho ho” said Father Christmas, again, in an unnecessarily repetative way that made the children wonder if he suffered a mild autism as well as an underactive thyroid.