A
truly ancient female friend of the family used to join us for Xmas dinner every year, until what we have come to know as 'THE INCIDENT'.

It was obvious she was going off the rails quite early in the day, when she explained to my mum that she didn't want any turkey because her hairdresser had, earlier in the week, attempted to kill her by means of some unduly agitated brushing. She had since spoken to a doctor, she continued, who had explained that this vicious attack had given her water on the brain and, as a result, she should never eat poultry ever again. Obviously.

So we indulged her, but she got more and more peculiar as the day wore on. Things reached a peak, I feel, at about the point where she explained that the RAF were carrying out some form of black magic rituals in her garden, as proved by the small group of minuscule people, about six inches high, who had taken up residence on her windowsill.

By this stage she had clearly had one sherry too many - one sherry, in this case - as her next action, as we sat staring at each other and our shoes in a slightly awkward manner, was to shit herself and then panic quite badly. And let me tell you, there can't be much that puts more of a damper on your christmas evening than a demented and severely agitated old person shambling around the living room caked in shit.
(Wong Fei-Hung - now with added flickr.com (see profile), Fri 12 Mar 2004, 12:19, Reply)