Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo can’t believe that we’re rolling into the third Sunday of Advent already.  But then the whole year has blown by in a blur, so why should this time be any different?

♦   Regular friends of the decanter may recall that Robbo was thinking of knocking off the sauce for Advent this year.  This was as much for health reasons as spiritual ones, because my cholesterol level seems to have spiked,  causing my doc to scold me about it at my recent physical.  Well, that didn’t work out especially well, but I have hit on a modified version that does:  I only allow myself wine in the evening on days when I exercise – which is something else I’ve been meaning to get back into.   I must say that for the past couple weeks, it’s been going great.

♦   My quest to postpone decorating the tree until Christmas Eve comes to nothing today, as I have to go pick one up after retrieving teh Middle Gel from school.  Mrs. R’s mother is in town this weekend for an “early” Christmas, so we’ve just got to have the tree up.  “Why?” I asked.  “Because shut up!” was the answer, more or less.

♦    Speaking of decorations, said Middle Gel has been after me this year to put lights up on the outside of Port Swiller Manor.  As I explained to her, this is something that Robbo Just. Doesn’t. Do.  Two wreaths on the front door:  Dyce and no further.  That’s my policy.  When she proceeded to pull a long face about this, I also explained that when she grows up and has her own house, she can do whatever she wants with it and good luck.   She said something about putting me in an old-folks home, buying this place and lighting it up just to show me.  Whipper-snapper.

♦   Oh, speaking of such things, as much as I loathe the annual airing on teh radio of a Baroque “arrangement” of “Jingle-Bells”, I heard an even more awful Baroque arrangement of “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” today.  I was on the elliptical and the radio was out of reach, so I had to suffer through it.  My ears are still bleeding.

♦  Somewhat off topic, I have finally got round to doing a lot of little chores around Port Swiller Manor that I’ve been putting off for a while.  Hanging pictures and that sort of thing.  And I now remember why:  Offering to do one chore for Mrs. Robbo is rayther like offering an alcoholic a single drink.  Next thing you know, she’s face down in the honey-do jar, chugging for all she’s worth.

♦ Aaaand, speaking of chores, a pro-tip if you’ve got to patch a burglar’s slash in your Jeep’s gray rag top:  black duct tape is much more inconspicuous than silver.

 

 

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