I’ve spent Christmas in a strange land. It is a land where the towels are always wet, every meal (even breakfast) consists of turkey and three types of potato, and the only program on the television is The Mentalist. I protested but, like the old lady in the home, whenever I insisted that I’d been kidnapped and that I shouldn’t be there, I was humoured and politely ignored.
It has taken great cunning and feats of endurance to furnish our escape. We waited until the guards had slipped out to fetch more potatoes and then proceeded to eat our way through the prodigious piles of chocolate that blocked all the exits.
Now we’re home and relieved to be back in normality. Bloated with too much chocolate and potatoes but otherwise no worse for the experience. I couldn’t help but smile when the first song I heard on the radio when we got back was Through the Barricades.
Actually, now that we’ve been back a little while, I have to admit that it’s a bit quiet here. There’s nobody to play games with. Nobody constantly plying me with beer. Nobody cooking all our food and cleaning up after us. Maybe it wasn’t that bad after all. Perhaps I’ll go and put the television on and see if I can find an episode of The Mentalist.