The signs are all there. Christmas is definitely coming. In my block of flats someone has wrapped a bright red strand on tinsel the entire three stories of the stairwell. It looks like a tapeworm in drag. The traditionally flatulent perfume commercials have been polluting the television for those who have no time to buy Christmas presents and no inclination to think of what the recipient wants.
Still on the television vomit inducingly twee commercials referencing Santa and gifts (but very rarely Jesus Christ or the salvation of mankind) have been attempting to persuade us that the vast supermarket chains that spend the rest of the year driving farmers into bankruptcy and underpaying their employees are actually offshore subsidiaries of Santa's Elves Incorporated. Which is nonsense, Santa gets his stuff made in sweatshops in Bangladesh and Cambodia. Finally my place of employment is preparing to shut down for the holiday period. What this means is that I still have to do my job but that nobody is around to answer my questions.
Suffused with Christmas spirit (or possibly day drinking) I put in a call to my Tasmanian correspondent. She was rolling around on the kitchen floor attempting to bludgeon a turkey to death with a gin bottle. Apparently her turkey cooking last year had been sufficiently successful for a repeat performance to be demanded. After attempting to get her attention once or twice I gave up and connected with my tech support.
They at least were making an effort to get into the festive spirit; they were passed out drunk on the floor. A plastic Christmas tree was on fire in a corner of the room and tinsel had been strewn around apparently by firing it out of a cannon. An automated warning was sounding but I don't speak Belarusian and all I could get was something about a coolant leak. Hopefully their air conditioning is up and running before the weather warms up.
Finally I tried getting in touch with my New Zealand correspondent. He's been harder to get hold of lately and not just because he's in New Zealand. When I demanded an explanation he asked who I was and how I got his number. I did manage to get through to him on this occasion but all he said was,
"Dear god, the sheep are massing," followed by some unpleasant gurgling noises which I'm putting down to the plumbing.
I have to admit the evidence of my little blog team all enjoying Christmas in their separate ways made me feel nostalgic. I took comfort from the fact that the closest of them is several hundred miles away from me. I shall celebrate Christmas in my usual fashion, turning up on the doorstep of such relatives as haven't moved far enough away to avoid my turning up on their doorstep. There we shall enjoy the socially mandated family time and gift giving and if anybody survives will make insincere statements about how delightful it was and "we must do this more often" before we retreat pale and shaking into our dens to await the new year.
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