Here One rests in One’s small room
Pondering One’s sickly womb
One can but lie here, still, and wait
Until One learns it’s grisly fate
Through a small hole will they winkle
or drag the blighter out me twinkle?
I’ll save it as a gift to give
and mark it ‘where I used to live’
To bring a little Christmas joy
To that great big lummox Boy.
‘You go too far’ I hear you chorus Dear Reader. Nonsense, One is merely laughing in the face of adversity. Well, One should always stick with what One does best, shouldn’t One?
One went a visiting yester-eve to Vile ex Husband and Boy’s gaff. Together, as a dysfunctional family we watched a skeletal Father Christmas being dragged around Wivey in a rather fetching sleigh, by a flatbed truck.
There were no revellers abroad that evening and save for the Council workers in their High-Viz jackets (and us at the window) the only by-standers were the blokes having a fag outside the pub.
A strange ritual then ensued…
Father Christmas was presented with an aluminium step ladder, looked awfully chuffed, and shot off into the distance to the sound of sleigh bells.
Obv a strange Somerset tradition…
Or, maybe it’s just Wivey. That’s more likely.