Mr. Waffle pulled 18 dead bodies from the Princess’s head yesterday. This is the third application of the patented remedy. They love her. It’s mutual. On Christmas morning, she asked anxiously “will there be presents for the little animals that live in my hair?” Alas, no. Just death and destruction. Lice get very little of the Christmas spirit. My sister-in-law the publishing exec who has glossy hair reaching well below her shoulders was a little alarmed to find the Princess poking and peering at it and only mildly relieved to hear her highness announce “I’m looking for animals in your hair but I can’t find any”.
On Christmas morning, with considerable effort, we managed to get the whole family to mass. Mr. Waffle looked round dolefully and said “I know these people, they look like me, they sound like me and I know what they’re thinking, they’re my tribe; I can just never afford to live near them”. Since you ask, yes, the Dublin housing market continues buoyant. The children’s mass also presented the spectacle of a number of kiddies on the altar whose birthdays were in December. Girls too; I’m sure the pope would be appalled, if he knew. The priest asked “what’s your name?” “Jack” said the scion of the middle classes. “And when’s your birthday?”, he continued “I don’t know” said Jack who obviously hasn’t been hothoused as much as other candidates. The next child did a little better, his name was Adam. “And when’s your birthday?” asked the priest. “I was born tomorrow” said Adam proudly. Do you think they all got lice for their birthdays?
