I don't know who's in charge of this Christmas thing any more but it certainly isn't me. The ultimate seasonal platform for multi-taskers everywhere with so much to organise, choose, buy, bedeck, cook, hide.
I've been in new software hell for a fortnight, having upgraded my whole system to Mac OSX, and I'm working through the authorisations at about one every two days. This, combined with the rotweiler attentions of my current director, have been slowly recasting my Nativity role from know-all Magus to crabby inn-keeper to Herod who simply wants to kill some innocent people.
We've sat through several concerts and have been charmed variously by euphonium playing that only the festive season could possibly permit, some lusty singing and near-singing of Ding Dong Merrily On High, and a new 'composition' entitled "Christmas Is A Time Of Joy' played by ten (!) guitars. I counted them miserably while thinking a better title might be 'Cringe, Cringe, Cringe To My Ten Guitars'. We saw an amateur production of 'A Christmas Carol' which was very good and scared Jake witless. We sat through a concert in the Fairfield Hall which yielded much Christmassy music from many lands including all three verses of Ding Dong Merrily On High which did for me what Marley's ghost had done for J.
I meant to write a little piece about the recent Blogmeet but like nearly everyone else I didn't. So, for the record, I enjoyed it much more that the previous two I had attended. I was very pleased to meet several A list types I had not met before and to remeet many others. It was by far the most sparsely attended meet and I ask myself why. One wise head said it was because it was not a weekday night. Possibly. Another said it was because it was so near Christmas. Perhaps. I think it might be something to do with the fact that the novelty is wearing off a bit and that repeated exposure to other bloggers on no better pretext that the common ownership of blogging software leads one gently back to the ancient human virtues of meatspace interaction. In the long run a blogmeet is no more likely to produce a good party than a meeting of the Biro Owners Club.
So Merry Christmas to all and every visitor here. I will be closing down until the New Year, not that anyone will notice the difference much.
Why are so many people coming here this afternoon with the identical search terms 'dickensian modern'? 25 since 3:49 pm. Seems bizarre.
You are all very welcome but could one of you please leave a comment and explain?
Started the Xmas shoppng in earnest yesterday. Goats all round. That's right. And they aren't just for Christmas.
I heard some pundite saying that this Christmas will finally see the birth of internet shopping. Truly a modern nativity, that. She might be right too, because I haven't seen these goats, nor have their festive recipients. All very high minded, courtesy of Oxfam. That's the sort of thing you give to people who have everything. Mind, I think I would probably be livid if I got one. Better to give than to receive, definitely. You get my goat, that's the motto.
Tried the new must-have playground sweet at teatime. Toxic Waste they are called and they are the sourest thing on the planet. Or maybe second sourest after Julie Bindel. They are a junior test of machismo, a test I failed after about 15 seconds, which is how long I lasted before I spat the little ball into my coffee. I like vinegar and lemon juice and did so even as a child. But these things - beyond words. Truly. Apparently they become sweeter as you go on. Well, I think Hans Blix can have a go at that claim. Count me out.
Caught Faithless at the Brixton Academy. The first time I've been in a crowd going absolutely nuts since Wembley '97 when Carlisle United won the Who Cares Cup on penalties. Awesome.
Own-lee
Twenty Four Chocolates From Christmas...
The first of December meant the offspring up early looking for Advent Calendars, traditionally a tricky moment in our household. But this year, at last, the perfect solution awaited them: the Fair Trade Advent Calendar - with Chocolates! What a marvellous combination. Happy chldn, Third World poverty addressed, the old old story told once again on the little flaps. Goodwill on earth off to a flying start.
I really thought the spirit of Christmas was permanently lost last year when I saw an Incredible Hulk 'Countdown Calendar', a piece of paganism so crass that surely even Eric Bloodaxe would have blushed. Countdown to what, apart from the chocolates running out? I tried to picture the accompanying mythical birth story.
The infant Hulk, newly born, lies asleep. A knock comes on the door. Three strangely dressed men stand in the moonlight by three panting camels.
"Yes?" says Hulkmother.
"We bring gifts," says the tall one.
She tears open the parcel, bemused. "Shirts?!"
"He'll need them, lady. Trust me, I'm an astrologer."
"And green would be nice for his bedroom," says the one on the left.
"Thanks," says Hulkmother. "Anything else?"
"Well, yes," says the small shy one. "There is something. Can we stay here till things improve back home in Iraq?"