Ah, Christmas on planet John. 'tis a joy indeed. HRH Cheryl Tweedy (yes I know, she's now Cheryl Cole but in my heart she'll always be the lippy, cheaply highlighted, toilet attendant-abusing, deliciously common Ms Tweedy to me) sits graciously atop the tree this year, resplendant in her pink sequined boob-tube and gaudy white faux-leather jacket, whilst Mr Brittonfeld himself languishes on the sofa, snuggled in to the other Mr Brittonfeld (who, it emerges, has THE weirdest collection of Christmas music ever; Loreena McKinnet, anyone?) and chugging happily on a pint of Bailey's. You can take the girl out of Leyland...
Had a very nice early Christmas present as well - the man from Immigration... he say YES!
Well in theory, anyway. I've finally, after nine months of waiting, received my first stage approval from the Canadian Government! Hip hip friggin' hooray! What it basically means is, providing my drug-using, kiddie-fiddling, serial-killing past doesn't show up in my police checks, I'm guaranteed to be accepted as an official permanant resident. It also means I am now approved to work. Michael practically held a gun to my head whilst I filled out my work permit application and frog-marched me to the post box. I think someone is eager for me to start earning some coin...
So, by the end of January at the latest I'll be once again clocking in with the work slaves.
Oh shit.
Merry Christmas one and all!
