Psycho Santa’s here!


The only good thing about being ill just before Christmas is that without a few hours of daytime TV under my belt, it’s doubtful I would know that Airwick has produced a mulled wine-scented air freshener. Can you even imag…?

Who doesn’t love a virus with a full-spectral load of achy, sleepy, sweaty and weepy? Wednesday was just achy but by yesterday afternoon I couldn’t watch Pollyanna without snivelling when she hobbled up the aisle to be Aunt Polly’s bridesmaid: ‘ohhh, the brave little girl can walk again!’

And let this be a lesson to everyone who doesn’t think it’s THAT cool to have completed your Christmas shopping by the end of August. Most of it is done but the two most important ones have yet to be bagged. My dad can have a box of my favourite chocolates, but those few days spent telepathically ordering my brother to see sense and not to expect a present this year were a waste of time. The flinty-eyed bugger shattered that wish into tinkling shards with the text – received just as the virus was getting a grip – ‘And get me a Christmas present you bum’. That deserves all the riches that a range of half a mile from home can offer. Equals Tooting Market. Now, I wonder which he’d prefer: a budgie, a sari or some chopped goat.


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