So, Father Christmas goes into a garage…

Picture this: my 6’6½” husband stops to get some petrol on Christmas morning. He is dressed in a Father Christmas onesie (a one-piece outfit which has a zip up the front) He has to wait in the garage to pay for his petrol and in front him is an extremely posh lady with a cut-glass accent, wearing an expensive Barbour jacket and with a badly parked Range Rover outside; she is having trouble matching her pin number to the various cards she is trying to use to pay for the basket of shopping she has. The patient and smiling Indian proprietor suggests maybe she should use the cash machine to get some money to pay for her goods.

There is a small man, extremely drunk, who has managed to buy himself a meat pie (don’t forget this is Christmas Day morning) but is now struggling to get the microwave oven in the shop to work and heat the pie.

Suddenly the door is flung open and a harridan with long dark hair bursts in. I shall replace the ‘f‘ word she actually used with ‘frog‘.

“Oy!” she shrieks at the man swaying in front of the microwave. “Oy, it’s frogging Christmas Day and I’ve been sitting in the frogging freezing car for a frogging hour! It’s frogging Christmas frogging Day!”

The posh lady who has moved to the cash dispenser to try and get out some money to pay for her fuel looks shocked.

“It is the season for joy and forgiveness” she says in her cut-glass accent.

“Frog awff!” exclaims the harridan and storms out of the garage.

The 6’6½” Father Christmas and the Indian proprietor exchange restrained smiles.

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