As November saunters moribundly towards it’s dawn, we prepare for the advent of Christmas 2020. A festive period which’ll be unprecedented in the half century plus I’ve existed on this earth.
Coronavirus resulting in having to purchase my turkey donning a mask. Incidentally, that’s me adorning the face covering. The turkey, its race already run, and bereft of head, would’ve little use for PPE. A situation, if it occurred, that’d be worthy example of the adage ‘Locking the stable door after the horse’s bolted’.
In preparation for 1st December, later I plan to dust off my advent calendar from last year….. What do you mean “You don’t reuse last years advent calendar do you?…. You tight Yorkshireman!”
Of course I do. The reason Blu Tac was invented was for the very purpose of sticking numbered doors back down on advent calendars. I’m not made of money. Or to quote a nameless family member, who when teased about their ingrained frugality, oft announces “My arse isn’t studded with diamonds, you know.”
Footnote – That person isn’t literally nameless. I’m merely endeavouring to hide my mum’s identity.
With Scottish and Yorkshire roots I guess the manifestation of my penny pinching traits was kinda inevitable. That being said, yours truly wasn’t always so careful with his pretty green.
When they were young children, I’d buy my kids a new advent calendar every year……. Well, one between them anyhow. The catalyst to my thriftiness came later after god spoke to me during a dream.
As this message was relayed in Latin, I’d no idea what the Lord actually said at the time. However, after referring to google translation it was clear the Almighty was pouring scorn upon my wanton money squandering….. Incidentally, if anyone ever tells you “Nulla duiusce moron pecunia.“, it’s Latin for “Stop wasting money you moron.”
God doesn’t often talk to me in dreams. Normally, it’s the fragrant Aussie beauty Margot Robbie who makes unscheduled tarries into my night visions. Or she did do until last Thursday’s dream, after she was so disturbed by my behaviour she served me with a restraining order.
During a break from writing this whimsy, I’ve just retrieved my re-cycled advent calendar from the loft. After concluded today’s chronicle, I intend dusting down the cardboard ornament which counts down to Christmas Day. Additionally, ensuring the Blu Tac is still fit for purpose and all doors thereon are secured.
If truth be told, I’m pretty indifferent about this year’s festive period. As the ‘Penrith It’s Just Another Day Society’ (PIJADS) oft pronounce, the main yuletide event will be just another day.
After all, Planet COVID affords earlier home drinking hours, a subsequent rise of drunken online shopping and increases in troughing on snacks.
Consequently, Christmas Day will mirror many people’s previous six month daily landscape of getting inebriated, opening packages without knowing the contents, bingeing on TV and fat/salt ridden fare.
In the wintertide of 1973, the band Wizzard sang of their wish it could be Christmas everyday. In coronavirus induced lockdown, individuals who baton down the hatches, ignoring the outside world, are more or less fulfilling Roy Wood’s bands existential aspirations.
As a result, I’d venture by the time we reach 25th December, once St Nick has been and gone, for some the day”ll be the same old same old. The gluttonous ill-discipline once spared for the festive season now just part of a COVID Groundhog Day.