The tragic consequences of permitting two drunken imbeciles to decorate a Christmas tree.
Eh. You should’ve seen the Buying of the Turkey. There was much Sturm. And maybe a bit of Drang, too. I didn’t want a whole turkey, because you know what they do here? They snap off their feet and cram the ragged stumps up their asses. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like BTK poultry. We compromised on a whole turkey breast.
Then we came back and had fresh grapes and apples from the farm shop, a new loaf of poppyseed bread from the baker in the high street coated in Bretagne butter (the one with crunchy crystals of sea salt), a tin of pheasant paté, a hunk of organic Cornish brie and a big pot of Assam tea. I had no intention of posting that, but I was asked pointedly if I was going to admit on my
blog what a pretentious wanker I am.
So! S. Weasel: pretentious wanker.