The wicked witch of the west will arrive
this holiday, not by broomstick, but by bus. My foul-mouthed sister-in-law
Clara the cosmetologist will make her first trek to town since burying her
fourth husband this summer. Upon arrival, she'll make a big show of deceitfully
unveiling a “homemade” bread-and-butter pudding trifle that she actually purchased from
a petrol station convenience outlet; the same bloody petrol mart that stocks cartons of her beloved Doral® cigarettes that she’ll suckle in the toilet, in direct
defiance of household rules. After she tires of the obligatory exchange of
family pleasantries, she’ll fashion some excuse that gains her a quick exit — "clear my head/stretch my legs/scratch my arse" — and make a beeline
for the nearest pub house, where she'll seek out a game of snooker and/or a
lonely bloke to keep her glass filled on the promise of some tawdry coupling.
The penance will surely be steep, mates. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Run for
your lives!
