What does any sensible boofhead do when it's colder than Condoleezza Rice's smile and the days are shorter than Danny Devito? He hibernates.
So I did. I jumped into the cot and set the alarm clock for March.
Only I slept through it.
Dreams? I had a few. But not too few to mention. Best of all was the flying dream. Yeah, everyone has flying dreams. Mine was special. I was flying a Harrier Jump Jet launching missiles at a Cat Retirement Village. To paraphrase some bloke in some movie: "I love the smell of singed cat hair in the morning ... it's the smell of victory".
And a very special cheerio to Cosmo.
Be that as it may, I jumped out of the cot, took a look in the mirror, and fair pooed my jim-jams in fright. Five months in the cot can take a toll on a boofhead's appearance. So I said to the two-legged dogs, I said, "This boofhead needs a makeover".
Lo and behold, we're straight into the macchina - that's Italian for car; I hibernated with my iPod loaded with Italian language courses jammed into my oversized ears - and we're barreling down the road to see Paola.
Here I am, straight out of the hibernation cot, with Paola:
Paola's great. She kisses me every time I drop in. I try to kiss her back. She ducks. Maybe it's the big pink flapping tongue.
Paola and I usually shoot the breeze while she works her magic. She teaches me Italian, I teach her Dog. I'm winning.
So a couple of hours later, Paola's done her job, and I'm ready for summer. Even if I'm looking like Bjork with PMS:
So how did Barbra spend her winter?
Where she belongs:
Behind bars.
