I'm sure that was a knock at the door.... ah, hello, there you are. As the nights darken and the winter edges ever closer (making a weird 'meep meep' noise, for some bizarre and inexplicable reason), I have invited you in to glance over my holiday snaps, drink my home-brewed rhubarb-and-stoat ale and generally rummage through my smalls drawer, making rude remarks about my collection of obsolete pants, carefully embroidered with 'Road Signs through the Ages' by my dear widowed mother.
Come in, come in, close the door behind you otherwise the badgers get in. Now, who's for a rhubarb-and-stoat? You at the back? Ice and a slice? Fine, I'll pour, you put the protective gloves on. And, if you'd all like to prop your eyelids open and pretend to be interested, I'll give you a glimpse at my snaps.
No, not like that. You can get up off the floor. And you, you can stop rolling around and pretending to be in pain. Look.
Here I am, pointing at a waterfall. I don't know why, I think I was giving it guidance or something. All I know was that my trousers got wet and I had to pass the remainder of the day with a damp buttock, thereby leaving oddly moist semi-imprints in every chair I sat in.
This is an island. It attempted to follow us home and had to be shooed away in no uncertain manner. Our own fault for feeding it, I suppose.
Someone pass around the snacks, would you? I find keeping the blood circulating at times like these is invaluable. Be careful with those cheesy fingers, they're the cat's favourite and he doesn't like ....oh. You seem to have found out for yourself. Never mind, the bleeding will stop eventually. Have another ale, it numbs the pain. Actually it numbs all essential functions and I usually find it's best to drink it whilst sitting on a bucket, but help yourself. Now, where was I? Ah yes, some of you still seem to be awake...
Where did they all go? Someone even seems to have climbed out of the window, look, they even left their half-finished pint of ale... oh well, seems a shame to waste it. So then, now it's just you and me, another twenty seven pints of rhubarb-and-stoat and a hundred and fifty seven pictures still to get through...
Oh, really? Must you go? No, of course I understand, armpits can be such tricky things, can't they? Ah well, I shall just have to save the rest of the pictures for next time I invite you round.
I can wait.
The Crash: Chapter Fifteen - As Jason Jackson-Jones' daughter lies in the operating theatre after a car accident, possibly caused by his own firm's faulty parts, he's finally forced t...
3 days ago