Where did we put the reindeer dust? The cake has a marzipan coat, looking good. And the last of the cards will be in the post, soon. It’s coming, you know.
On the way home I stopped at the supermarket, one of the big ones, the type I don’t usually use. Just for tatties in case I didn’t get out the next day, awfy busy you know. In the five minutes I spent wandering those hallowed halls I discovered all that is wrong with the modern Christmas, and I left feeling quite down.
There are pallets and pallets of excess, of things we don’t need, probably don’t want. My pet hate are those piled pyramids of tinned sweeties, stacked high. Our houses are filled with sweeties, and chocolates. And I read of people planning their festive dinner at the foodbanks, starving, broke. How I loathe those photographs of politicians smiling as they pack boxes at foodbanks, glad to be seen to be doing their bit. Unaware of the irony, their policies, the ones that mean we need to have foodbanks to feed our people.
And the supermarkets, filled to overflowing, over-packaged goods all in little boxes, gift sets, truckles and truffle-filled pates. And all those songs blasting out from the ceiling; the same wherever you go.
The Urchins are aware of it all; school’s nearly out. I don’t think Johnny will get any presents from Santa after that. Boy Urchin was in the car with me, both very low after a thumping defeat at the footie. Our goalie had lost the plot, reacted to a numbskull on the terraces, seen red; mist and card. We shipped five, and three much-needed points went across the city. The manager had walked at the start of the week, and the search for the third one of the season began. The coach has gone too now, other players no doubt. It was one of the most depressing days at a home game that I can remember. And we play the seem team again this week, in a cup tie, still rudderless.
I can barely function; too much lost sleep. The dark hours, headphones on. But they brought their secret weapon for the last one. Blowers was back, thank goodness; and the night was filled with seagulls, and white buses. But the air was still filled with the sounds of tumbling wickets, and celebrations of joy. Gripping stuff, across fourteen largely sleepless nights. The Urn Returns, as it says on the screen – we get highlights now, on some channel called Pick.
And I don’t think KP will get any presents from Santa either, or some of his colleagues for that matter. But my Aussie shirt will be clean again for the next one, on Boxing Day, from the MCG. Might even grow a moustache like Mitch. Oh, haud on a minute.
So do you deserve presents from Santa, unlike Johnny and Kevin? And does the sight of your supermarket turn you off the whole thing. Where did I put my Humbug Hat?