Yes I know in the past I’ve said some pretty disparaging things about this time of year. Well not really, but you could be forgiven for thinking so. Nevertheless; I would like to wish my one remaining reader a very Merry Chillmas and laid back New Year in which I promise to mock the politically correct killjoys and extract as much urine from the perennially uptight as is humanly possible. Between work, essays and coursework that is. Posts may get even more sporadic.
News from over the water is good. Youngest has moved into new London apartment and has gone a little mad buying such fripperies as new bed linen and big, fuck off fluffy bath towels. Which we are happy to subsidise. Eldest is likewise embedded in her host culture and assisting the spread of civilisation and mobile communications in her part of Africa. A few extra quid to make her life easier is the least we can do. Especially since the postal service to where she is can be described as half way between sporadic and non-existent. Why go to the huge expense of sending a parcel that may never arrive when she can use her twice yearly flight back to London to stock up on the necessities?
As for me, at present I’m finding chauffeuring Mrs S around a little troubling. Specifically when it comes to Christmas shopping traffic. On our penultimate shopping trip I twice almost had to physically restrain her from getting out of the car and giving what for to some gormless types who had a very poor idea of how to drive, or a sense of how much road space they occupied. After that experience, a very large drink was called for once our apartment door was firmly closed behind us for the evening. I do love my wife very dearly, but she has a firecracker temper that once set off is hard to rein in. Suffer fools gladly she most certainly does not. Fools aplenty are on the roads and clogging up the Mall car parks at this time of the year, so I avoid them as much as possible.
Anyway, for your entertainment and edification, here’s a little seasonal sexist dance routine all the way from the bad(?) old days of 1974.
As for all you other husbands who drive their wives around, Gawd help us, every one……
What the hell, there’s always the bus.