Had one of those binge drinking kind of weekends that one reads about often in the Daily Mail. The Ladyfriend and I entertained Michelle and Sarah (two good spinsters of the parish of Brighton) on Saturday night. The conversation flowed freely and so too did the wine.
Sunday morning therefore was one of pure horror. The Ladyfriend and I made the trek to Favoloso's for a full English breakfast. I've talked of Favoloso before but to those new to Lola it is a cafe in Eastbourne which does every food possible as long as it can fit on their pin board menu where the letters are stuck in those holes. They also do those big ice creams with exotic name (knickerbocker whats its) The highlight of Favoloso is the clock on the wall which, when the clock strikes a new hour, it opens up and people come out of the sides playing music. I love it.
Anyway, there is a tramp in Eastbourne who I have always admired because he looks lovely. Infact he looks like Father Christmas. I saw him as we went in to get our much needed fry up.
Whilst waiting for the Ladyfriend to bring over my lovely big latte I grabbed a table and looked out of the window and across the road sat the tramp. He waited with his duvet rolled up when from behind the counter a waitress took over an enormous cup of coffee to him. He looked up and his rosey red cheeks shone so bright and his smile lit my day. He IS Father Christmas. I reckon he's trying to find out who's naughty and nice by sleeping rough in bus shelters. He is not to be found in department stores but on park benches. And although I'd rather not sit on his knee I would prefer a picture of the Eastbourne tramp on my Christmas cards this year than the overinflated pensioner in the red suit of old.
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