Let me welcome you ,if I may, to Ye Olde Englishe Inne, nestled soft in the heart of the green rolling hills of Hampshire where time has stood still since 5.15 this afternoon. It is Friday and not just any Friday, since from today Morticia is on holiday until the hangovers of the New Year have departed( about the middle of January ,give or take a week). She is joyous mood and bids her friends join her in seasonal song and merriment………

Morticia wanders into the Mudcat Arms and calls out in her best 'summoning the bar staff' voice," Ho, there Barkeep, a large gin and tonic and one for yourself"! A vision of unloveliness appears before her in the shape of a begrimed and aged old fellow with a scowl that could singe asbestos. " 'Ere" says he, in sulky tones as he draws the required nectar from the optic " aren't you one of them there folk singing types what woz 'ere last week and caterwauling fit to make my head 'urt?"

" Yes indeed," she says with a grin , not entirely free of malice " and so welcoming were you, (aside from that amusing jape with the fire extinguisher which was purely in high spirits, I am sure) that I have come as the advance guard of the Mudcat Pre-Festive Celebration Party.

"What?" said the aged one with a look of horror, " you mean there's going to be more of you?" " Yeah verily," quoth Morticia, who was known to get biblical when excited or drunk " lots, I hope…..singers, guitarists, banjo players, bodrhans……even tiples mayhap…Why, elderly barperson…..what ails you?" she said anxiously.

With a soft sigh, mine Host sank into a faint, knocking over a jar of pickled eggs in his slow descent to the sticky, beer-puddled floor. " Bugger" said Morticia, as the aroma of vinegar wafts round the pub " I suppose that means I'm pouring my own."