That was me told

The whole chat of the house at the minute is about what Waffle’s going to get from Santi. I nearly choked on my cornflakes when it was first mentioned on Saturday morning.

I resisted, of course, suggesting that the hairy bugger would be lucky to get a bag of coal from Santa Claus because, after a moment’s thought, I concluded the hound would only be too happy to chew his way through the coal and thus wreck the house.

“What will Santi give him?” the littlest of the little humans asked, innocently.

“Maybe he’ll get him a new toy to play with,” Herself suggested.

“Aye, seeing as how he chewed the last one to smithereens,” I added.

“Or maybe Santi will get him some treats for snacking,” Anna wondered, ignoring me.

“He’ll give him a kick up the back end, or at least that’s what I’d give him if he tripped me up when I was trying to deliver presents,” I replied around a mouthful of ‘flakes.

“That’s because you’re the Grinch!” Anna responded, brandishing her own spoon at me in an overtly threatening manner. “Santi will kick you up the back end if you keep being grumpy.”

“He will in his dreams. I’d catch him in a sleeper hold and there would be no more guff outta him.”

“I’m gonna tell Santi about you, Grinch!”

That was me told. And as if by magic, Waffle appeared from under the table and laid his head on my thigh.

“Away you go, Hound,” I told him. “You’re getting nothing for Christmas. Count yourself lucky you’re still a member of this family after all the botheration from you this past year.”

Waffle ignored the jibe and proceeded to lick from my leg a few cornflakes crumbs which had somehow bypassed my big mouth.

“Away you go,” I repeated, jiggling my leg so as to disrupt his ministrations. “Go and be beside your elf friend there with the big spoon.” I glanced at Anna. “Maybe she’ll take you to the vit’s the next time you trip over your own stupidity.”

The cause of my cold shoulder was the after-effect from the night before when Waffle had once again been up barking in the dead of night at unseen spectres beyond the backdoor. There had been nothing there of course. There never is. But it had happened in the wee hours and my sleep-in had been all but ruined, seeing as I had to rise and tell him to shut his hairy trap.

“Well,” said Anna. “I’m going to put something for Waffle on my list for Santi. So there.” And she stuck her tongue out at me.

I returned the gesture in kind.

Then I thought occurred to me. “Maybe ask Santi for a muzzle for him – no! – a sensory deprivation tank. That might shut him up for ten minutes.”

“I don’t know what that sensory… thingie is, so I’m going to pretend you’re not here for the rest of the day.”

Wow, thought I. That was me really told.

The rest of Saturday played out as Saturdays normally do: I finished up a few chores, kept an eye on football results and enjoyed a leisurely lunch without maintaining eye contact with the clock so as to avoid noticing how quickly the day was passing by.

It wasn’t until the dying of said day that I encountered this week’s picture. There isn’t much to add to that, really.

I’m only surprised there wasn’t a picture of the Grinch underneath, ‘Dad.’