Another one bites the dust

And off they went. Half a league, half a league. Some to the north; some to the west. Some so far away I have no idea of direction. Cannon to the right of them. Cannon to the left of them. Cannon in front of them. And a shed load of cannon behind them. And none with a mobile phone between them that works. Or if it does, you’re not allowed to use it. The man-child sends a text which reads

It costs me £1.27 to send a text. There’s another £1.27 gone then son.

Here’s a couple of puzzled looking folk. Perhaps they’re wondering how long it will take to clean the joint up. Not long. Three loads of washing, some dusting and vacuuming. A sensible decision to ignore the carnage in the fridge. A replacement of garden chairs. Bob’s your uncle. Fanny’s your aunt. Job done. Man-child sends a message. Having made the effort to post some photos so he can see Christmas in Poole from a distance, he writes to say he’s noticed his slippers seem to be on his brother-in-law’s feet. Was there a man dismayed?

And boldly we will ride and well tomorrow as we make our way into the jaws of death. Well, Clarke’s Village at Street to be exact. Off to spend a tiny portion of our Christmas box. And afterwards, weather permitting, a brief jaunt up to the top of Glastonbury Tor or, perhaps, a quiet moment at the Chalice Well. This before we return to Dorset, shattered and sundered, to celebrate our newest festivity…the Feast of the Leftovers.

This entails some careful planning: four crackers between six people. Three ancient jacket spuds cut into segments for frying. Some bacon cooked in ginger (an additional ingredient which nobody noticed the first time round). Seven orange segments in brandy. An unopened Stollen. A recently discovered packet of pitta bread which, by tomorrow, may have turned blue. No loaves and no fishes but three bottles of wine and no reason to get up early the following day. Honour the charge they made.

And here's me wearing an appropriate Christmas outfit