It’s the bleak midwinter. I know this, because last night Dadnambulist, on the phone from the Southernmost tip of the Arctic circle, exclaimed through the chattering of his remaining teeth “They call this global f+++ing warming? If they want to save the polar bears they should bring ‘em all here to live in f+++ing Cornwall.”
The body and the ideology may be eroded by the passage of time, but the wit retains an enduring vitality. Perhaps that was cackling rather than chattering that I heard.
2009 was not the year of the Dennis after all. Instead, he remains frozen in dispute like some gigantic mammoth, locked in the permafrost by the evil wizard’s spell (he who must not be named, and who must surely live in a castle devoid of mirrors).
Still, while Lord Mouldyfort spent the holidays with his conscience, there was time to spare for much festive fun and frivolity. The hordes descended on the Applehouse for a Saturnalian Yuletide Winterval and then left fuller of mirth and girth. The turn of the year was spent in the delightful company of friends in Co. Kildare (Billy the Buttlander made it there and back with barely a whimper), where the mini-somnambulists enjoyed a week of walks, swims, games and marathon sessions on Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2, with their local comrades.
Then came the snows. All the Clanambulists love snow, not least the under-exercised hairy one, who takes to drifts with gay abandon. Although to be fair, he’s not so keen when I make him sit and dangle his soft bits in it, to pose for photos. Can’t blame him really.
While we’re waiting for Dennis to thaw, we’re making the most of the beautiful Kentarctica…
