FOWC & Your Daily Word Prompt

“Happy Breastmas” said my neighbour, winking at me as we exchanged cards on the doorstep. I’ve several cards I must deliver locally to friends and neighbours in the village, but due to extreme pressure of enforced Christmas fun and cleaning up, there’s no time. So what the “Breastmas” meant is lost on me. It’s either a pun on the turkey crown’s breasts which I collected on Saturday or a sexual slur on women in general, the wink betrayed it to be the latter I suspect.

“Is your wife a go-er?” nudge, nudge, wink, wink, “Does she go?”

This is the first time I’ve been able to settle on the new sofa and blog, how do you think its going? Is it better than usual? Considering that at the beginning of December I’d decided to write everyday, so far I’ve failed miserably, and I’d go as far as to say that actually this has been the least profitable blogging month In my brief 2 year history, I’ve missed a Friday Fictioneers for the first time since I started, which saddens me. The statistics don’t lie, I’ve work to do and loyal followers to feed with roast turkey dinners.

Thus far this month has been one long busy time, words ceasing to irradiate from my jumbled mind, I’m looking forward to January, to knuckling down and changing a few things. I’m not a great believer in New Year’s resolutions, and very rarely are they in any way successful, in fact the single and possibly only one which worked for me was the decision to start this blog, which is just about still limping along.


Last night we took a trip out to Stourport, drunk in spit and sawdust pubs, told a stranger I had two wives and was desperately searching for another to join my cult, so if she was up for it then she would be welcomed with open arms, so to speak. I saw someone being sick into the canal outside the pub before getting stuck into his beer again, cheap nasty lager, Foster’s probably, nothing else says Christmas so beautifully.

My friend has a shed in his garden with a fruit machine and a bar, barrels of Fosters, Cloudy Cider and Guinness, theres a telly streaming 90’s piano classics, you can smoke or vape in there and there is a dirty sex pond outside across the astro-turf, that’s living alright. That is where we started last nigh before behaving indiscriminately in Stourport upon Severn.

Later this afternoon we’ve been invited to another party, one of us is going to have to drive, because Kieth the Teeth the strongbow swilling taxi driver has quoted us £100 to get back from Clifton upon Teme, I told him if he’s driving us in the Space X craft then thats absolutely fine but I’d need to see the curvature of the Earth for that sort of price. Thats enough from me, theres too much going on and I feel I should be helping out somehow.

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