Everybody has a happy glow
Let's dance in blood and pretend its snow
Even Mao Tse-Tung is under the spell
It's Christmas time in hell!
It's that time of year again, when things start grinding to a slow, inexorable halt. The shops, running low on powdered egg again. And in the queue at the post office, the terrifying pleasure of being trapped between two women who were discussing the Direct Debit™ issue. For thirty minutes.
The issue being, simply, that they don't trust them. They've never had anything go wrong with them, but they just don't trust Direct Debits™. They've seen Watchdog, they know that sometimes Direct Debits™ do go wrong, and yes, it can be pretty hellish getting them sorted out again. So they like sticking to cheques, or in this case popping in to the post office for a nice chat, a moan about how long the queues are at this time of year, and a lengthy and tiring chat about how her daughter wants her to go back to BT, but she really can't be arsed with them. That was her word.
90p stamp, sorted.