That’s me, that is, Dear Reader…
A forlorn, unwanted, lonely creature wandering the streets seeking a smidgeon of seasonal succour.
‘What are you doing at Christmas Boy?’ enquired One.
‘Dunno. Don’t care as long as I see Doctor Who,’ came the glad tidings.
‘That bloody Eileen can’t make gravy, you know. I’m going to tell her and offer to make it for her when I go round there on Christmas Day,’ came the ill-advised mantra of the Aged P, ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that if I’d been kind enough to invite you into my family and home and give you Christmas dinner and you complained about anything, I’d punch you in the gob!’ One replied.
Anyway, that pretty much summed up the doings of One’s nearest and dearest and rendered One a bit of a verruca at a pool party in the invitation stakes.
Ah Ha! thinks One. One has a ‘boyfriend’ currently, surely he’ll want to spent the festering season with One?
Or will it be a turkey twizzler for One.