Tommy

So, I arrived at my sister's in Englandshire on Christmas Eve to be greeted my little nephew Tommy and his cheeky, Bob Hoskins-like Cockney accent. "Awight Neil. Cuppa tea mate?" "Yes please," I replied as politely as possible, fearful he might string me up on a meat hook if I looked at him the wrong way.

"Listen Neil. I've been reading that bollocks you've been writing lately about people and their scarves," he continued, lighting a cigar as he spoke, "and I'm 'ere to tell ya to get over yourself. THIS is 'ow we is wearing them these days, awight? So get with the programme or get the hell off my manor! And a jolly 'oliday to yow too Mary Poppins."

Thankfully, the next few days passed peacefully as I did his bidding at every turn and bought him chocolate in all its forms wherever I could find it. But you can see the menace in his eyes in this second photo when he caught me looking at his brownie the wrong way. "Do you feel lucky punk?" he seems to be asking, daring me to even think about stealing a bite.

On Tuesday, I did indeed get the hell off his manor as I moved north to visit one of my brothers but on Wednesday there was a knock on the door and there stood Tommy. "Wot the 'ell are you doin' 'ere? I fawt I'd got ridda you. Out the way and let me play with my cousin Fraser."

And so I sat quivering, watching them play with their little trains for hours. Occasionally, they would look at each other, glance at me and start giggling in unison. As they 'pretended' that the little toy driver had fallen out of his cab 'by accident', I could tell they were thinking of me as Thomas the Tank Engine drove back and forth over the sprawled body of the little toy driver.

By the way, check out my Mum's bling and the obligatory British cuppa tea.

Tomorrow, Fraser.