Prithee what news of this muggly mulch of friv and splu that we call home?
Well, we've furtled in the evening mists and under the gibbous moon, lost, found, now you seem now you don't, I've fallen in a hole.
Barfed great swathes of onerous pricklies up bathroom walls and hallway carpets ("what made me eat it dad?", " well he did, he made me, it was stuck to his nose").
Woken in the smelly used sock of Bacchus' laundry basket amongst the fetid rummage of the previous night's debauch (far too often than is wise or strictly necessary).
Slept fitful churning...grumbled, gnashed and gurgled through troubled dreams of giant rabbits, swirling smoky overcrowded clouds of crows or old cheese sandwiches fallen behind overstuffed sofas, each to our own as is our want.
Gyred mightily and sprung sprightly from a standing start, involuntary aerobatics to accompany each whistle and banshee screech and pyrotechnic thud of light in the November night sky, "I don't know dad, I don't know why, it's louder in my head", bladder bursting jet propelled impropriety at every starburst shell or blast-it-to-buggeration-super-grenade-repeater, damn you Fawkes you were a fucker, we'd piss in your hat if you were here.
Made tea, in quantities to fill an effelumps bath, or ship a ship to Mandalay, and left said tea as tasting sad.
Been a single, furry ball, too may legs, too many heads on the fireside rug.
Frosted, toasted and roasted all in a single day.
Called it a day
Called it a weekend and then a week.
Call it a what you will, it's what we do.