ho ho ho

Thank you, to the drunk man with the dog who I almost walked into whilst sliding my way across Yateley on Christmas Eve in boots with no grip. He had what looked like several days worth of conjunctivitis scum around his eyes and reeked of booze and worse, but after I skidded to a halt in front of him and shrieked "I'm sorry!", he said something.

"Huh?"

"I said, happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."

Because even though I spent the rest of Monday night serving copious amounts of shit booze to other drunks and partaking in banter such as "If you wave that ten pound note in my face one more time I'll bite your fucking hand off" and "No, mate, I don't fancy your mate, your mate thinks my name is Sharon, mate", even though there was drinking and dancing and singing that do-they-know-it's-Christmas song, even though a beautiful man gave me a Christmas card made from a Marlboro Lights box - that crusty old man almost made my day. Almost.