Today One shall mostly be exuding the fetid aroma of moist pussy cat.
Having chosen yesterday (rain, gales etc) to go a-delivering of Christmas cheer, One rendered Oneself damp, bedraggled and giving off an unpleasant miasma of steam upon entering various establishments.
Across the border in Devon, One’s first call was to the most delicious of Christmas homes. The extravagant, booming voiced, tiny hostess was, as ever, examining herself and questioning her marvellous existence.
There surely is no rhyme or reason as to our lots in life. How can there be? When the divine practically beatific Lovely One is living in such poverty stricken squalor, when those less deserving are looking forward to a season of merry-making and being wrapped cosily in the arms of close and extended family.
Ah well, at least One had an email from Boy informing One that his amour is ‘willing to see me.’ That is the response to One’s invitation to supper during the holidays.
Ah well, One has One’s memories of One’s own thrilling Festive seasons. Not that One hasn’t had invitations to join in with the celebrations of others. But, One doesn’t want to be the ‘Aunt Cis’ of the season just yet.
Let me explain…
Aunt Cis, One’s maternal grandfather’s sister, married late, lost her husband following a brief whirlwind coupling and thereafter was shunted from relative to relative throughout the Festive Season.
Sitting, legs akimbo, Babycham in hand, revealing knee-length bloomers Aunt Cis would regale everyone with her rendition of ‘Don’t sit under the apple tree,’ for what seemed like an eternity.
One shall simply hide away in One’s lair, putting off the inevitable ‘Aunt Cis’ experience until next year, or the year after…