Uncle Ian, snoring on the couch, off in noddyland after several heaped plates of Christmas lunch, appeared his to tiny niece as a fallen giant, felled in a forest of family and festivity.
The advent calendar was eaten aggressively, early and out of order. A standard block of chocolate would have been a wiser choice.
Dear Shopping Centre Santa Claus,
You must have a titanium lap, for to withstand the collective weight of one hefty twenty-one year old (myself) and my brothers (both also of hefty weight, and less beautiful faces) is no easy task.
MQ: “Man.”