Well, it's been a weekend full of activity here in the village. The Christmas tree lights are all up around the square, twinkling in the frosty evenings. Last night a man came to view the cottage. He was 40 minutes late and as we were just about to go out he got the bum's rush. I recognised his voice from the warmth of my front hall, as he was sent away with a flea in his ear. This was the little, goatee-clad and bespectacled pixie who had called at my door two years ago claiming to be not only a mystic but the reincarnation of James I. The biggest fool in Christendom indeed! Apparently he was attracted by the ley lines crossing through the square. He told me all about the ancient tribe that lived on the hill, kept gesturing to his little car and talking about someone called 'Olive' (I wasn't sure if he was referring to the car or an imaginary friend in it). Now I had a name, I googled him. Yep, found him. Now a mystic but one-time founder member of an obscure band that once had a hit in the 1980s.
Scooter Boy almost ran over the new man from the electricity board, who spent all day reading people's meters. He turned up on my doorstep at 8.30am, clutching a list of addresses and an perplexed expression on his face. The look of terror on his face was down to his encounter with Scooter Boy who, late for work again, was roaring through the village. All he wants for Christmas is a new silencer.
I managed to get through the second reading at the village carol service without coughing and without any sniggering at the words 'I am a virgin'.
That's about it
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