Although if I were slanting towards Political Correctness, it’d be all Happy Winterval or Merry Sacrifice Your Goat with our best wishes. But I’m refusing to succumb to the bah humbug curmudgeon who’ll perfectly identify with my occasional inner Daily Mail reader.
It is the season to be jolly or in my case, pissed. The only thing Santa needs to bring me to make me happy this Christmas is a new liver. If he can leave the hangover in his sack, I’ll even forgive him the delivery of the in-laws after Christmas. I’m shying away from the itinerary but the kids gleefully tell me the entire related-by-marriage clan will descend on the 27th. I’ll adopt my normal pleasant smile while mainlining whatever is close to hand – be that beer, gin or the cooking brandy.
Assuming I don’t let myself down, let my family down, etc during that happy period, then two relation free days await on the trails of my choice. Looking at the long range weather forecast that’ll be somewhere close to a good pub serving three square meals a day.
Another rather less portentous anniversary is almost upon us. The hedgehog has been pickled for almost a year and you’ll be under-whelmed to hear that the backlog of drivel shows no sign of abating for 2007. With that also stamping my passport to official middle age, I expect the angst to be cranked up to a Spinal Tap 11. I can make no such promises for grammar or punctuation.
So whatever you’re doing, whoever you’re doing it to and whatever you’re doing it with, I’ll bid you happy holidays. It’s unlikely I’ll be in a fit state to type between now and the horror of going back to work.
But don’t worry, come January, I’ll make up for it.