Jesus Christ!
He was born, apparently.
Christ was; Christmas. It sits on a funny throne in this house. On the one hand, we moan when advent calendars and mince pies go on sale halfway through October. But then we did leave our Tree Festivé up in the living room until June, and I don’t think Plush Spiderman ever lost his tinsel. One wonders if he ever will.
On the whole though, it’s all a bit of a bitch. You have to start thinking about unique things to get for people again and there are only so many of those; the first person to unwrap a bronze figurine Hitler is not going to be pleased, unless I fall into very much the wrong crowd in the near to middling future. Nobody’s really impressed by an orange with cloves in it any more - I was nearly fifteen years old when the appeal faded for me. It all has to be very swanky to cut the mustard with today’s modern hipsters. Short of starting a clone army (and think about it, that’s going to take a while to grow) I’m really not sure what the solution is.
Then there’s the elongated mealery. I love food but I can’t eat a lot; I think it’s something to do with intra-digestional warping, or ectobalance. The food I do eat is lovely though, which is why the traditional massive Christmas meal is such a struggle. So much to eat, but you have to pick and choose, and then fall into an endorphin-induced coma as the stomach takes over as the primary organ of the body, digesting bits of turkey while the photons emitted by A Grand Day Out on TV provide the brain with the vital carrier wave to prevent it from collapsing into soggy neural death altogether.
So, Christmas. Jesus Christ, superstar. Posing in his beard, like a chunky dental mist. I suppose we should celebrate him again, by drinking a lot and generally exhibiting heathen behaviour. Great!
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