Bah Humbug, it's 24th December, Christmas Eve, again.
And just like last year, my post will probably take most of the day.
All the advent calendar chocolates have been devoured, even before breakfast - where did 'no sweets before lunch' go?
Never mind, I have other things on my mind like Shakespeare (he never wrote anything about Christmas - maybe he was a bit of a bah humbug too?). He does mention Christmas in Hamlet, but Hamlet is a tragedy and Twelfth Night refers to the twelfth day after Christmas, but I never got that much of a sense of Christmas from the play - a cross-dressing love triangle.
Maybe the Bard and I have more in common than I thought?
Or maybe not.
Which brings me back to the topic of Christmas presents and chimneys and Father Christmas.
Similar to last year, we have no chimney - who needs a fire in their home in Singapore? so I suppose Santa will have to come in through the front door or downstairs, or not at all. When I was younger, my parents would tell me that unless I tidied my bedroom up (and that included everything I had hidden under the bed), then Father Christmas would not visit because he did not like children with messy rooms.
That was probably the only time of the year my toys got a clear out.
Now it's a case of getting my children off the computer or whatever screen, or dropping whatever game they are playing thundering up and downstairs with swords and other weapons.
Stairs are extremely good for exercise, so I cannot really complain.
In recognition of chimney challenges, I have dug out my Christmas ditty from last year - maybe I shall get back to it before the day is out and finally complete it. Then next year I may just get around to illustrating it.
Down the chimney
It’s Christmas Day, without the gifts,
Did Santa get our lists?
Dad said, ‘It’s cold, I’ll get a log,
While mother feeds the dog.’
I looked around the Christmas tree,
In search of gifts for me,
My brother searched with all his might,
There was nothing there in sight.
We eyed the mince pies on the plate,
To check if he had ate
A bite, or drunk a glass of milk,
Or if it was all just bilk.
The white moustache upon Dad’s lip,
Betrayed more than a sip,
And hard to hide the mince pie crumbs,
That sat all over mum’s.
Dad lit the logs sat in the grate,
And told us all to wait.
The chimney smoked and then it coughed
An ‘ouch’ came from aloft.
Dad stuck his head up in the chute,
And uttered a loud hoot,
‘I do believe old Santa’s stuck,’
My brother said, ‘What luck.’
‘Oh Dad,’ said Mum, ‘don’t take the mick,
That can’t be old St Nick,
That chimney’s such a boring chore,
He’ll come in by the door.’
I didn’t care where Santa was,
The why’s or where’s, because
All I wanted were my toys,
Instead of chimney noise.
The chimney spat out clouds of smoke,
It made me want to choke,
So off Mum shuffled to the door,
Then cried out, ‘Saints galore!’
The door was bolted shut, quite tight,
It had been like that all night.
Dad said, ‘I hate to disappoint,
But I think I have a point.’
We all looked up the chimney stack,
And spied a large brown sack,
A pair of boots and a red coat,
All covered in black smoke.
I knew my presents were up there,
With Santa in mid-air.
I wondered how we’d get them down,
And Dad began to frown.
My brother found a cricket bat,
Mum said, ‘You can’t use that.
Let’s face it Santa’s squeezed in tight,
He’s been there half the night.’
'But I want to open all my toys,'
I said with grace and poise,
'There must be something we can do,
To release him from the flue.'
My mum just shook her head and sighed,
'He's really lodged right up inside,
I think his rather largish tum,
Has far surpassed his bum'
My Dad then had a strange idea,
To bring some Christmas cheer,
We'd pull the sack with a large hook,
And dislodge it from the nook.
My brother went to fetch a stool,
To reach the poor old fool,
While mother clapped her hands with glee
And went to make some tea.
Dad tugged and tugged at Santa’s cape,
To help old Nick escape,
But the cloth just ripped off in his hand,
Not really quite as planned.
We heard a rumble from up above,
And Santa gave a shove,
But all that fell was one black boot
And a shopping bag of fruit.
Where did the fruit come from?
That will be for Christmas Day ...
Finally, I found myself dashing around the bookstore. It's sort of a circular bookstore, laid out around a central set of escalators, so the dashing was definitely circular. It brought to mind a corporate ski holiday in Park City, Utah, many moons ago. The company I was visiting arranged a reindeer sleigh ride, complete with sleigh bells.
