Friday evening;
Mum's chatting on the phone with her mate Ethel, telling her all the local gossip.
Simon's lying on the lounge floor, wrestling with an invisible man.
Hector, my cat, is curled up on the sofa, asleep.
I'm sitting at the table, writing this.
Well, Christmas was a blast. Mum did us proud with a knockout roast.
Of course, Simon insisted on having the turkey's wishbone.
I pulled it with him, and he won.
God knows what he wished for.
Bertha and I spent our first Christmas together and cemented our love. I know, how sweet.
Mum was ****** as a newt by evening.
Simon had bought her a karaoke machine, and she sang songs at the top of her voice with Bertha. Their rendition of I Will Survive was something to behold.
Simon did a hilarious YMCA routine, including the dance and all.
I had a bash at Green Green Grass of Home, which reduced Mum to tears.
Then we all joined in for a raucous version of Do The Conga, which travelled around the house, leaving a trail of broken furniture and smashed wine glasses.
Party games arrived on cue when everyone was rat-arsed.
I forget what it's called, but it's the game where you stick a name on someone's forehead, and they have to guess who it is.
Mum became Marilyn Monroe, Simon was Adolf ******, Bertha was Stephen Hawking, and I was Barry Manilow.
We also did some apple bobbing, resulting in soaked clothes. Bertha's white blouse became totally see-through, showing off her massive knockers. She didn’t care.
Yeah, it was a lot of fun.
And now, it's Friday evening.
Bertha is meant to be popping round after work. She's gone up in the world since her heady days in Woolworths.
She now works on the deli counter at the local Waitrose.
Right, I'll sign off. It's time to hit the shower and put on a fresh shirt.
Gotta look sharp for the love of my life.