4^th January 2017

Snow. Snow, snow, snow. Snow? Snow.

    But no. It was just a dollop of cream which some airborne vandal – perhaps a passing witch – had dropped so tantalisingly onto my windowsill.

    Shoving thoughts of the tantalising cream from my mind, I rubbed my eyes with boiling muesli, propelled myself into my rotating suit, and slicked back my hair with a freshly squeezed owl – and thus, I was ready to face the world!

    As I walked to the shops, my shin bones simultaneously shattered, much to the dismay of a nearby warlock. “Never mind,” he informed me sagely as he vanished into thin air, leaving no trace but a crudely arousing chalk drawing on the pavement where he’d stood.

    Eleven hours later I returned home, dragging myself through my front door, my ruined legs trailing behind me. The shops had been closed. The curse placed on me all those years ago by that funky god Fancy Harold had struck again.