Christmas is my least favourite time of the year, bar the urine-scented test of patience that is Saint Patrick’s Day. Even as a child I didn’t like it. Or perhaps I should say that I never liked the dour reality of it versus the idealised fantasy that has been in vogue since the 19th century and earlier. My expectations of Christmas were derived from children’s books and television shows, attractive fictions filled with snow and magic. My experiences of Christmas were rather more mundane. There is nothing at the back of the wardrobe but solid wood. Does disappointment breed contempt?
Perhaps appropriately enough I find myself confined to the bed for this Christmas, taken by a fevered illness that has left me as weak as the proverbial kitten. Admittedly it is my own fault as long distances and hours in work have taken their toll. Yes, I made hay while the sun shone but the harvest is over and winter has arrived with a vengeance. I’m also so stoned off the head on a cocktail of medications that I’ve taken to waxing lyrical. Therefore, without further rhetorical detours through my overcooked brain, let me wish you and yours a very happy Christmas. Normal service will resume as soon as I have fought off the succubi who plague me. Or something… 😉