Much

It's no good, I can still 'ear 'er. 'Er took up the piano when 'er was well old enough to know better, and 'er is rubbish at it. Sorry, but there's no other way to put it. There's the conservatory and the sitting room between me and that blooming piano and I can still 'ear it.

The thing is, 'er knows 'er's rubbish at her piano but 'er works on the basis that if she keeps whacking out Silent Night, sooner or later, it'll be programmed into 'er. It's called muscle memory. 'Er muscles have got amnesia. You could surprise a cat and get a better noise than that. Call it Silent blooming Night? How did 'er come to 'ave a daughter like Daughter? Daughter could play them carols upside down and blindfold.

Apart from that, it's pretty good 'ere. Them little birdies still flit about the garden. There's still berries and suchlike out there for 'em, and if they want a chat there's me, Dodger and Oliver. One of 'em's done something on Dodger's 'ead, but 'e 'asn't noticed so I ain't told 'im. (Oliver and Dodger are the boy and 'is dog beside the apple tree, they were 'ere before us.) I 'aven't seen the 'edge'og for a while, so I reckon 'e's asleep. Dodger says 'e can 'ear 'im snoring, but Dodger would say that.

First day of December and all that. 'Er leaves it late to put 'er decorations up, just about a week or ten days before Christmas. Which set me thinking, I wouldn't mind a bit of decoration out 'ere. There's battery lights and stuff. And I wouldn't mind a bit of greenery meself. An ivy scarf would do me very nice. Perhaps one of you could tell 'er?