'Tis the season to be jolly .....

Isn't it ?

My word I met some jolly people last week, I met nobodies thinking they were somebodies, someone sitting on a camel with a long black beard and two men at Bristol airport who thought they were doing everyone a favour by sitting miserably in a hothouse of an office complete with a flat screen TV showing an impossibly exotic cooking programme. Ryanair had done us proud by landing half an hour early. The car hire firm kept us all waiting an hour and a half before depositing the few lucky ones to a pitch black car park. We stumbled towards a portacabin inside a large shed radiating light and warmth. 'We just want to get home' uttered one weary traveller, not unreasonably I thought. 'Don't we all love' was the response. I started humming 'Tis the season to be jolly' but the irony was lost on these two unfortunates secure in employment.

Meanwhile banks continue to behave like savages as the rats running them with their once wonderful degrees from assorted business schools sharpen their teeth seeking out the next hapless victim, usually upright decent hardworking people who have given their all, in some cases small family firms that have been run for generations, tearing the lives apart of careful savers and ripping to shreds the myth that the banking profession is a respectable one. As these rats scurry to save their own stinking skins the astounding news that one single man can hoodwink them out of billions just confirms that there is no question that the renewal of the stocks needs to be re-instated for the idiots and lowlife that are currently swirling all around us. Enough said.

Hurriedly popping my rose tinted specs back on, for I know that you all love me best when I am so attired and goodness me I wouldn't want you to think that I had mislaid them I was uplifted on my return to France at the sight of the Mediterranean coastline laid out before me as the plane circled into Beziers airport. The sea was azure, clear and sparkling, the oyster beds laid out neatly below as the South of France displayed itself in all its seductive glory. Agde, the Graeco-phoenician port lay below, a jewel in the crown on this beautiful coast. I would have taken the most marvellous picture as you might imagine but having requested to sit right at the front for the flight you apparently have to then take yourself back six rows for the plane to land. I was craning my neck past the most impossibly 'I just love myself' man who was trilling that he could see his house below, 'just down there, right on the point of the headland, fabulous position'. I must have murmured my approval for he casually volunteered the information that he would staying in a Chateau for Christmas. After giving me enough time to digest this riveting gobbet he, as an after thought in my opinion, asked me where I would be spending my Christmas. The question hung in the air.

The quick witted answer came to me as I'm sure you can all guess.

However on this occasion I kept my counsel.