Ringer

Mr B, after a long search, found the bolts for the table football machine today. You'll remember I had put them somewhere 'very safe' when we moved - not trusting him to look after them. Of course, as soon as he found them I remembered that the safe place was in a red envelope tucked in a box with the spare (and thus far unused) cleaning products.

Anyway, the yellow team seems to be employing a seasonal ringer.

So, I'm guessing that doesn't count as doing anything exciting today. We did venture out to Kirkcaldy for a trip to the toy warehouse that dare not speak its name (that counts as stupid, not exciting), with the windows down to stop the windscreen steaming up in our daft convertible with a broken heater (again, not really what you'd call exciting). So. The joke. This is the only vaguely seasonal (and clean) joke I can remember. Apologies if you've heard it before.

Santa is having a bad day. A very bad day. It's Christmas Eve. The Elves have gone on strike demanding triple time wages and entitlement to protection under the EU Working Time Directive. Half the reindeer have gone down with Swine Flu, and Mrs Claus is refusing to help him after that off colour joke about coming down her chimney on Christmas Eve.

The doorbell rings. It's an angel, a sweet little angel, with a large Christmas tree. "Here you are Santa - a Christmas tree to help you celebrate. Where would you like me to stick it?"

And that, boys and girls, is why we traditionally put an angel on top of the tree.