A week, as they say, is a long time in politics. A fortnight is even longer, and three weeks is tantamount to a lifetime. Britain is about to leave Your Rope; Mr Farage has just left Britain; Mr Trump has just become President Trump, and Mrs May has just bought a new dress.
But three weeks in politics is but a snippet compared to three weeks in the same dwelling unit as an angry Chicken.
I am already sick of 2017. Sick as a parrot.
For the first few days she refused to speak to me on the grounds that it would be inappropriate to fratenise with single men now that she was married to Mr Gingerbread-Snowman. Within ten days she had divorced him on the grounds of boredom, and begun a new relationship with a stuffed raccoon. Mr Gingerbread-Snowman and I were then able to become acquainted as Chicken wasn’t interested in either of us.
It was at this point that she re-established the lines of communication with yours truly, in order to tell me that she was sending me to Coventry on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour based on the fact that I had forgotten that all toys are hers.
I told The Fairy to tell Chicken that I was unable to travel to Coventry as my calendar was too full. Chicken told The Fairy to tell me to get lost, but The Fairy was too polite to pass the message on.
All my efforts at friendship were met with cold shoulders and rather unnecessary bad language, so I decided to concentrate on carrying out some maintenance work on my race track. Although there were some minor incidences of interference, for the most part she ignored me in favour of her new beau. Ridiculous!
I decided to remind her how fast I am because I know she finds this particular attribute irresistible. Casting caution to the wind, I repeatedly sprinted at full speed around my track, thereby rendering myself far more attractive than Raccoon.
She didn’t say it out loud, but I think she was secretly impressed.