My Christmas tree is a sorry thing to behold, it really is. I’m staring at it now. It’s naked, and bent to one side with all the indignity of a groom on his stag do, leaning against a lamp-post with his tackle between his arse-cheeks
My Christmas tree is a sorry thing to behold, it really is. I’m staring at it now. It’s naked, and bent to one side with all the indignity of a groom on his stag do, leaning against a lamp-post with his tackle between his arse-cheeks. The decorations came down last week, with the promise that the tree would soon follow, but ‘soon’ is as vague as you want it to be, isn’t it.
I can’t even take the glory for Phase 1: De-rigging. Matt did it while I finished my dinner one night. I think he made the most of me being a painfully slow eater to take action. With a decisive flourish no less – whipping the shiny things off as quickly as Sid James would a cackling nurse’s bra, and laying them neatly in a box for next year. I stared at him while he did it, chewing…
View original post 469 more words
acosipuncakalam 