Project Pickering

It was clear from the headline that this was not a town to be trifled with. I thort perhaps my purchase of a sleek, matt black pair of wellies from B n' Q would allow me to blend seamlessly in with the locals, but no one appeared to be wearing them at all and I soon got the feeling I'd be joining santa in a brutal back street deflation from an irate Pickerite. We'd done the town sq. twice in the space of minutes and realized we were wasting our time and the only answer was to return to our cozy trio of cottages for more Olympic boozing.

Indonesian night passed by in an inebriated fugue. London night was ours so required a degree of sobriety, but only 0.01 of a degree. Cypriat night also featured karaoke, so no hope for abstinence there. Christmas day? Puhleeese. Murder Mystery night? You must be joking, especially when you're playing an American Indian called Lowawatha, with an alcoholic grandmother. Perhaps what made us open the wineandbeerandbrandyandwhiskyandbaileysand tequila every night was the fact that we'd all chipped in to a seemingly bottomless kitty and felt obliged to drink our share no matter how ghastly we felt. An SAS assault course one afternoon over some spongy yet sturdy terrain (laughingly described as a public walk) gave us a momentary respite from the bottle, but it was short lived.

This though, is the nature of Christmas. The time of fandamily and good cheer, of which we had in abundance. The entire operation was put together with military precision and I doff my metaphorical cap to Team Pickering (you know who you are) for their supreme organizational skills. I also extend my deep gratitude to all of House Grandage, for welcoming me to the bosom familias and giving me the most entertaining Christmas I've had in years. I hope gashed chins and fractured kneecaps have healed and that the phrase 'Tip Tip' quietly fades into distant memory, never to be mentioned again. Fat chance I fear.

B