There is a brass band on my street gustily rendering Christmas Classics™. I feel warm and sentimental imagining a bevvy of warm turkey, Christmas decorations and fresh pudding swimming in a sea of custard. But I try to nip it in the bud, realising that my mum never went in for turkey, in fact, the most elaborate her Yuletide food prep got was
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Picture Norway in December. You'd think there'd be snow, right? Wrong. Fucking global warming. Warmest winter in something like 500 years.
Merry Christmas to you. Eat the custard. I dare you.
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Well, I'll pray for your white Christmas. I'll be in the burbs of the Gold Coast splashing thousand island sauce over prawns. Woot, woot.
Trust your well, getting on well with yer boy, picking up the native tongue (and by that I mean learning the language not pashing randoms). I was drunk & looking up Iceland on wikipedia last night (as you do) & I found it interesting that they speak a type of Norse that many believe relates closely to the Viking-speak of yore.
xxMerryXmazzzz
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