I'm sitting here drinking gluwein, which means it's Christmas, so hurrah.
Rumours of my death, having always been exagerrated by some, are now apparently being disseminated by the NHS. Perhaps they reckon they can get under budget just by bumping me off? I wouldn't be surprised. Anyway, they called me in 'cos I've apparently got a white blood cell count of "this man is already dead", which might have led to some exciting X-filular confusion trying to work out which planet I was really from, had not a mistake been spotted and my condition somewhat anti-climatically upgraded to "alive". Boo.
I have been panic-buying pesto; I've realised that, should Italy unexpectedly sink, I might actually starve before working out an alternative cuisine.
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