Pining Away

So there we are, Christmas is officially over. The tree's down, the decorations are gone, and I'm running out of time to do something with that last half-jar of mincemeat in the fridge.

Is it just me that appears to play hide-n-seek with decorations? You think you're done, sit down, then realise there's still tinsel round the picture. So you pull the boxes out again, stuff it in and sit back down, only to spot the wind-up santa on the bookcase (which has actually been there all year, because you didn't spot it last time either).

Then it's just a question of getting the tree out into the back garden and deciding, rather like the Liberator, which way it should be pointing; all the time knowing it's a redundant question anyway, as either will see an equal number of needles shed into the carpet, clothes and the cat's bowl. The resulting hoovering up is also doubly difficult, because finding pine needles on a green carpet? I suppose I could always do it in bare feet...

Still, next Christmas? Bring it on.

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008, Licensed to post cheap innuendo

Happy, um, January? Yes, quite.

So there I am, checking my email and trying to drink enough black coffee to wake up, when there's a short loud bang at the door. It's not quite a knock-knock, and as far as I know the doorbell's working, so I assume it's one of the cats, but I go to have a look, (somewhat tentatively, as I'm only clad in dressing gown and towel).

I pull open the door to find a middle-aged balding gentleman bent down in an attempt to stuff a Yellow Pages through my cat-flap.

The Cornish Rambler : startling unsuspecting locals since 2004.

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