The 22nd of December in the land of the inch high, and there’s been a light dusting of snow overnight, the miniature media reporting it as a 20ft deep arctic storm of doom laced with plague spores and that we should never go outside ever again. Ever.
Beryl looks over at the simmering locomotive, the fake snow not melting on the hot and sweaty engine, because fake snow is rather like that, especially when it’s something sourced from the pantry and probably more at home in a pastry or used for indigestion.
A Christmas tree has appeared as well, the local pipe cleaning factory donating a suitable specimen which has been expertly decorated by my wife using what looks like chopped up shiny sweet wrappers. She has more patience than me.
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