I am a troll molester

Bloody hell! I have managed to go back on my word, and lose money at the casino. I was educating my mom, see. Hysterical – she has this uncanny nack of making us both look like absolute country bumpkins (or rural dwellers *smirk*) when she doesn’t understand something.

Finding a slot machine that was empty was a mission, for starters. The one I came across was between a very suave business man on the right, and a a son and father team on the right. Heaven.

Acting even more ignorant than usual, we had all three men surrounding us explaining which lines to multiply and bet on and had them in hysterics when the bonus feature came on and we thought the machine was broken and showing us a demo.

After losing more money than I care to disclose, I decided the kiddies section was much more fun and I helped a little boy smash big bertha’s teeth and win hundreds of tickets.

I spotted an enormous troll in a window display and decided I wanted a photo. The security guard wasn’t too impressed by me hiking up the fake rocks to get to Norman (I named the troll). Eventually though, with a promise of coffee and a sweet, I convinced him to hold my camera and take photographic evidence for my mother who didn’t believe I would get my way in front of a whole crowd of people.

See below:

Norman, the troll in all his infinate goodness and peace.

Me, climbing up the wall and over the fence. Am such a moron.

Loving the Norm. Feeling chuffed with having my own way.

All it took was a fabricated story about a far off ancestor believing in fairies and magic, and this being my chance to symbolise my heritage and beliefs.