Okay, I know. It happens every year, we all know it’s coming, and do any of us really prepare – well, you might, but I know I don’t. And it leads to Christmas stress and despair. Lonely guys hanging around shopping arcades, kicking their heels, wondering what the fuck are they doing there, what does their wife really want from them when they say, “nothing dear,” and where the hell do you get it? And it doesn’t stop there. After you’ve mauled your way through the crowds to the till with that special item in your hand that you know you are going to be returning in January, after fearing for your life as you fought with that granny for those last pair of multi-coloured socks that really, nobody wants, and my god, isn’t there supposed to be a fucking recession at the moment – where have all these people come from? After all that, when you get home, breathless, cheeks tear streaked, gasping for the soothing kiss of alcohol, any alcohol, you have to wrap the damn things up in pretty paper, tie unbelievably difficult knots with a ribbon which refuses to be tied down, and then, after patching up all those bits of torn paper which pass for wrapping, so that your present looks like it has been chosen and swaddled with loving care, you have to sit down and write an original little heartfelt message to all your loved ones, who ask you afterwards why do you always write the same old crap, can’t you think of something new to scribble, when you’re thinking that you’re lucky you can still put pen to paper, let alone think of anything to say at this oh so wonderful time of the year. Yep, that’s where we are again – Jolly old Christmas!
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