The Golden Question.

But what is it worth? That's the golden question. I'm sat at the bar enjoying a Ribera del Duero in shorts, socks and a borrowed pair of Crocs and on the TV is some garbage about catering for the mega rich at Christmas: fuck them! Most of them couldn't masturbate alone, never mind boil an egg, yet someone in the UK thinks the mega rich: or the mega twats, need our attention over Christmas? Why, because they gave a great big bird to someone once because they were shown their souls - but this was a Dickensian fantasy anyway.

Penultimate day on The Way this year and I am once again relying on the Padre. This time there are two places in the Casa Parroquial, but I must be back by 9 otherwise the bedroom shrinks to one hundredth of a second after the Big Bang in dimensions: hang on I'm going back.

Why do we need this nonsense? What does it complete? My only feeling is it creates another hurdle, another frenetic fear driven assault, on what is totally at ease and should only be walked, crawled or still upon.