It’s kind of funny.
Christmas trees sparkle through living room windows and signs on lawns tell Santa where to deliver presents, but not at our house.
Our house with its bare walls and empty bookshelves is being evacuated as I, yet again, move.
While some people are unboxing ornaments and hanging them up to the rhythm of songs with sleigh bells, I’m wrapping mine in bubble wrap and stuffing them into suitcases. Most everything is being removed to the North for temporary storage.
I have much stuff.
My car, aged 14, is not impressed. The chap from the breakdown service and the men at the garage all have a cheerful way of stating ‘he’s broken’ that’s not so cheering to me. They’ve got the Christmas spirit, even in the chill of a December night.
Mulled wine and mine-pies soften the blow.
The humour in my life doesn’t end there. My computer doesn’t want to speak to me either. It’s no longer recognising its own vital organs. It won’t even wake up to say hello. I’m writing this post from the Boyfriend’s super powerful cinematic experience of a computer, but right now I’d prefer to have my own little netbook for company.
Hey ho. It’s Christmas. There’s chocolate, marzipan and cranberry sauce to distract me from my mishaps.
“… good company, good wine, good welcome, can make good people.”
Shakespeare (or John Fletcher perhaps?), Henry VIII