‘Twas the night before the night before the night before Christmas (i.e.: today), which kind of reminds me of that other repetitious sentence about the ‘George and Dragon’ pub sign.
It goes something like this: there’s a man re-painting it and he asks the landlord how much space he would like between ‘George’ and ‘and’ and ‘and’ and ‘Dragon.’
I can see already that I’ve gone off track. Not that there was one to begin with, you understand. When I come to write these columns (as you may have gathered over the months and years), there’s never a well trodden path, it’s more likely to be something akin to animal trails through the woods, possibly with the promise of some majestic view once we get through the thick of it.
So... let’s begin: where’s this year gone, eh? Tut! Tell me about it. This time last year, I was skint and driving a Suzuki Alto (a terrible joke of a car, which seems to have been made for people no taller than 5ft (I’m 6ft 4), and which feels like parts of it are made of cardboard held together with sticky tape (IMHO).
A year on and I’m still skint but I’m driving a much nicer Astra (which is why I’m skint)... oh, and I own three ducks, which I appreciate is an odd thing to throw into any conversation, let alone this one... but still, why not?
Someone at work asked me what they’re like the other day. “Like ducks,” I said back. That was the end of that. And it’s also the end of this. Quack, quack.