Friday, 30 November 2012

Tra-la-la, something about Christmas.

So, yeah! It's December 1st tomorrow, how the hell did that happen? I know it is, but only because I did the song in my head, otherwise I never know how many days a given month has. It's probably a requirement for being a grown-up, knowing things like that. Sort of proves that even though I've just turned thirty, I'm unlikely to be an actual, proper grown-up for, well, never. Thirty days has September, April, June and Novemb-- Ah! November has thirty days, result.

I'd usually have enraged the Spy by already having the decorations up by now, flashing and twinkling and driving the electricity bill to as yet unseen dizzy heights. The tree would have been up a fortnight ago, already looking like Christmas vomited on it, but I'm angling for a NEW TREE this year, so it's still up there in its sad battered box.

We can't have a real one because the animals would use it as pissing post/scratching thing/excavation dig site/feast of needles. I'd come down one morning and there'd be poop and wee everywhere, the dogs would be borking up needles and the cats would have found some raptor bones in the pot and would be conspiring as to how to grow claws that big. Oh god, the horror.

The Spy was telling me earlier about how one of his co-workers has a WHISKEY ADVENT CALENDAR! How amazing is that? Instead of gross chocolate shaped vaguely like bells and evil santas, you get a wee dram o' whiskey every morning! I mean, sure, not so great for the kids I should imagine, but for us?!! (Oh, see how I suddenly want to be a grown-up. Hypocrite.) INTRIGUED by this, I set off to find my own Mecca of advent calendars, which clearly would be one with a wine bottle for every day.

They don't sell them, so I'm going to fucking trademark it. I'll make them. They'll be classy as fuck, all done in the finest plywood Homebase can sell me on the cheap, and the Christmas day bottle of wine will be vodka, because families are hard, y'all. Well, I'd like them to be super classy. It would probably turn out like some kid's failed woodworking effort.

I tried to find a photo from the internets to illustrate what I mean, but my Google-fu failed me. Between pictures of Lady Gaga, Dame Judy Dench and still from some movie thrillingly entitled 'Bad Kids go to Hell' (Bear in mind, please, that my search string was 'Terrible kid's school woodwork projects'. Dame Judy Dench, really?! I mean, Gaga, I could maybe buy that, But DJD is National Treasure) I found this picture which more or less captures the spirit of what would happen:

Classy as.

Oh, oh - and I like that Google things THIS is a failed school woodworking project:

"If only you'd applied yourself!"

That's all I've got for you today. The Spy will be shaving off his 'Mo later on, I'll be cracking open a bottle of wine, and we'll see if my favourite Blogger Amber wants my help wading through the shitefest that is 50 Shades Freed.


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