Plucked

Isn't it a joy to be woken up by the radio alarm at 5.30am and hear the comforting news that those of us of a certain age will have to work until we are nearly 70 before we can claim our pension... followed by the news that 1 in 3 of us will most likely have dementia by the time we reach 80.

After trying to blank out that information it was a treat to hear a piece about tongue twisters. Then when I saw this tiny little white feather stuck on a frosty flower pot it put me in mind of the following tongue twisting rhyme;

I'm not a pheasant plucker
I'm a pheasant plucker's son
I'm only plucking pheasants, til the pheasant plucker comes

WARNING: Do not attempt to recite this to your Great Aunt Mildred after you've downed a glass of festive Bucks Fizz. Nor, for that matter, to a room full of nuns, even if you are totally sober.

Inspite of my early morning wake up call I do have the day off today and I am about to commence battle with the Christmas decorations....do feel free to distract me throughout the day.