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Merry Madness

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Happy Moose is here again

The skies are bright and clear again

So come on and let me hear again

Happy Moose is here agaiiiiin!

Twas the night before the night before Christmas

And all through the office

Not a creature was stirring

As most of them went to the office party last night and can’t even remember what species they are…

There will be a report on the office party coming soon as a guest entry or two. I myself did not attend. Instead, I had a couple of drinks, did some tidying of the house, wrapped a present, visited Uncle Fester and family to say happy birthday to his little girl and then home, to watch Michael Palin’s Pole to Pole while relaxing in bed with a whisky. It was all rather civilised and led to me going to sleep at 10:30 for probably the first time since I learned to tie my shoelaces. I also had 8 hours of sleep, which is double my average night. By comparison, Mr Hotspur (previously known as the work machine) apparently lost his coat with his mobile phone in the pocket some time after midnight in a 70s club (70s music, not a club for the over 70s). Somebody definitely found it as they attempted to call me at 2:51 this morning. Needless to say, I slept right through the ringing and only found out this morning.

On to the horror story for the day.

This morning, Mrs Moosehunter had to leave the house earlier than I, so she trotted back into our room with a smile on her face and a spring in her step to say goodbye. I opened one eye and floundered around like a man drowning in blankets. Shortly after I got up and went to the bathroom. I was contentedly standing at the porcelain relief hole, whizzing my heart out, when the eight-legged large, evil, hairy son-of-a-bitch in the corner of the bathroom moved just enough to catch my eye.

I peed on my foot.

Honestly, I nearly jumped hard enough to put my head through the ceiling. I’m quite lucky really that I only peed on my foot now that I think about it. I could have redecorated the bathroom as I spun around and fled, sprinkling, from the scene.

No, I peed on my foot.

I shouted through the house for Mrs Moosehunter in the vain hope that she hadn’t left yet but was greeted by only an arachnid-filled silence.

There followed a dilemma.

I needed to clean my teeth. Might be able to grab the stuff and then run downstairs and do it in the kitchen. Hell, I was about to have a shower, but could live without one in the presence of the beastie. But, of course, I’d now peed on my foot. Did I really want to spend the last day at work before Christmas with people giving me suspicious sidelong glances and sniffing? Did I wan’t to be known as Stinky McSkank for the next year? No. I had to shower. And if I was going to have to shower, I might as well bite the bullet and clean my teeth too.

It’s not easy to do, but I managed it. Standing near the bathroom door, I leaned forward until I could lean on the edge of the sink with my left hand, while scrubbing my teeth just over the bowl with my right. All well and good. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it makes you feel better knowing you’re as far away from Satan’s spawn as you can be and still accomplish the task. That, of course, is when the bloody thing moved again. Suddenly! My left hand slipped, I banged my cheek on the edge of the sink and collapsed on the floor.

It was the quickest fall and recovery I’ve ever pulled off. Olympic athletics contestants can’t make as speedy a recovery as that. There was no way on God’s Earth I was going to lie helpless on the floor with that in the room. I managed to get up, left the tooth cleaning articles in the sink and stood at the door again.

The spider had gone.


I knew it was still there and had a pretty good idea that it was hiding behind the basket of girly shower-stuff in the corner, but you can never be sure unless you see it when it vanishes. I swear the damned things teleport. You only have to take your eyes off them for a fraction of a second and they’re in Tanzania. I can’t help but wonder why the gambling community hasn’t yet considered racing them.

To cut a long story short, I managed to stop the running water in the sink, switched on the shower, had the world’s record-breaking quickest shower with my eyes locked on the basket of bottles and things in the corner the whole time, waiting for something black to move. If it had, of course, I would probably have left the shower and the bathroom by the most direct route (i.e. through the glass shower door).

Bastard Spiders. Make my life hell.

A few rules that always apply to Christmas (and this one’s no exception):

1. You will always buy a present for a child that is almost twice as wide as the largest roll of paper you can buy. This will lead you to trying to combine two lots of paper and it will end up looking a mess.

2. There will always be a present that is a peculiar shape and at some point in the week leading up to Christmas, you will accidentally put a finger through the wrapping paper where there’s a gap behind.

3. There will be a duplicate present somewhere. Either you and a friend will buy each other the same present, or the two of you will both buy the same thing for a third person.

4. The amount of food you are offered wherever you go on Christmas day will vary according to how hungry you are. By mid afternoon, you should be almost unable to breath with your trousers still buttoned. After that, everywhere you go, people will have put in a great deal of effort to provide vast mountains of food just for you and will be disappointed if you don’t eat yourself into a medical condition.

5. Somebody in your family will be disappointed that you haven’t had time to visit them (despite the fact that you haven’t had time to think even.)

6. At some time late on Christmas day you will hiccup and there will be a little bit of sick in it. This is probably the time you will change what you’re drinking in order to avoid it happening again.

7. You are guaranteed to receive at least one of the following: A pair of socks with garish coloured pictures of cartoon characters on them; A set of either Old Spice or Brut smellies; A bottle of something you don’t drink because the smell makes you feel sick.


Written by SJAT

August 20, 2009 at 2:33 pm

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