I'm not asking Spock round for New Year ever again. I still can't feel my drinking arm.
Ouch and double ouch. I was expecting Auld Lang Syne. Or a communal glass raising. Cheers or embraces.
Instead the assembled mob in the living room counted down to zero and instantly began to seethe in a frenzy of squirming activity and mutterings – which I realised too late to defend myself was “Pinch, punch, first of the month.”
And that’s why you should never let children stay up to midnight on New Year’s Eve – least of all a pincer-fingered horde Continue reading
Blackwatertown 