I spent this morning scrabbling about amongst the cob webs, dead pigeons and Mrs McNasty's discarded old and slightly shrivelled PVC underwear in the attic this morning searching for what passes as the McNasty Christmas Decorations. It is a physical law of the Universe that the uninspired assortment of tinsel, barely visible winking fairy lights, paper chains and cracked baubles that were thrown into a dark corner the previous January all disappear down a worm hole sometime during March only to be spewed out during October in an altogether different part of the attic.
As a result of their travel through space-time, various parallel Universes and probably Clapham ,the assembled mass of wires, tin foil, glitter and artificial fir tree all smell of old twigs, dust and Mrs McNasty's discarded old and slightly shrivelled PVC underwear.
After twenty minutes or so of fruitless searching and sniffing accompanied by a continuous barrage of abuse from Mrs McNasty who was holding the ladder I happened upon a book that I had not picked up in years, Captain W.E. Johns excellent "Biggles flies a desk". Skimming through the pages I was transported back to the sepia tinted memories of my boyhood.....
Biggles sighed loudly, threw down his pen and leant back on his chair. "Bally Purchase Tax, I can't make head nor tail of it Algy. Oh how I wish the bally war had never bally well ended; give me a tight spot with Ginger any day of the week!" Across the office Algy looked up from his ledger and grimaced, "Sorry old sport this is the best that the War Department could do for us. We were just too expensive to keep on, particularly given your propensity for pranging kites and high class prostitutes."
"Well it's dashed unfair, two days we've been cooped up in this hell hole, not a bimbo in sight and my scarf is beginning to chafe!" retorted Biggles coquettishly, "what's wrong with pranging high class ladies in any case?"
"I think it was more the kites that worried the C.O." explained Algy with a touch of derring do.
Biggles reached for his pipe and began knocking it out absent mindedly into Ginger's coffee mug. "Thing is, old chap, I'm not cut out to fly a desk. I feel slightly ridiculous sitting here and this dashed flying jacket gets mighty warm."
"Your helmet looks slightly ridiculous too", quipped Algy.
Biggles snorted, "makes me feel less self conscious."
"Well you could leave the goggles off, must make reading those tax projections bally difficult"
Biggles scowled, and after stuffing his pipe with fresh tobacco began the suck, blow, suck, blow lighting ritual that was so familiar to so many high class ladies and unfortunate schoolboys. With a sigh he turned his attention back to the Purchase Tax projections of John Howard (Printers) Ltd, publishers of the Royal Flying Corps Training Manual and Biggles personal favourites, Kite Pranging for Beginners and The High Class Lady's Almanack.
"D'y know Algy", Biggles observed, "One day someone will look at what we did just after the war, and they won't believe that we spent hours and hours flying a desk, poring over tax projections when we could have been buzzing round the sky avoiding our responsibilities, shooting the hun and having a jolly good time."
Alas my brief sojorn was rudely interrupted by the sound of Mrs McNasty complaining that her new pubic wig was chafing and that if i didn't hurry up and find those decorations she would be forced to review her plans for the evening and stay in to help me put the darned things up. Call me old fashioned but I still believe in the true spirit of Christmas and whilst I have been known to applaud Mrs McNasty's often fertile imagination, I believe that it is essential to keep artificial icicles, tinsel stars and spray on snow well away from the fevered perversions of a middle aged Brunhilde and her bondage swing, so with a reluctant sigh I put the book down and resumed my search for a battered cardboard box.
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