Yuletide preparations continue apace in chez Strachan. With nineteen more sleeps until St Nick breaks into my apartment with an immunity afforded from his benevolence, my pre-yuletide plans are well placed.
Gifts are purchased, and arrangements to distribute the presents have been made. Additionally, a kind invite from friends to celebrate Christmas Day with them mean I’m not even required to prepare a festive meal this year.
There are a few bits I still require, and still need to wrap the gifts, but it is pleasing to be in the position where I shouldn’t be subjected to last minute panic buys. The latter, habitual scenario’s playing out far too often in recent yuletides.
Although as flawed as the next person, unless the person adjacent isn’t flawed, I hope numerous benevolent acts during 2024 (both financially and behaviourally) will see me reside upon Santa’s good list.
Additionally, yours truly hopes I avoid a visit this year from the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. I am keen not to experience a repeat of last year when the self-righteous trinity of spectres visited.
Tarries resulting in having to endure even less overnight kip than normal. Not to mention, impairing my latest addiction of playing the Wooduko phone game at some godforsaken early hour.
Last year, the ghost of Christmas present whined endlessly about a challenging yuletide journey to my apartment. His whining tirade resulting in a bizarre role reversal where I admonished the ghoul to suggest he adjust his entitled behaviour.
The ghost of Christmas future (GCF) was not much chirpier. With usual self-righteousness, claiming if I didn’t rectify the error of my cynical ways, in the afterlife it’ll be too late for spiritual redemption.
Revealing a failure to address may result in my soul being damned in purgatory for eternity. Going on to say, despite purgatory affording a spacious lounge/diner, en-suite facilities, and scenic views of the Cotswolds, it’d be a domain where I’d suffer interminably. Yours truly subjected to an eternity of Jacob Marley’s incessant wailing, constant rent arrear fines from Judge Judy, and unthinkable marmite deprivation.
After delivering his damning advocacy, GCF then had the impudence to ask if he could borrow £5 until payday……. Despite his lack of collateral as loan security and gloomy predictions for my future, earlier ghostly advice about addressing my frugality hit a chord; consequently, I acquiesced to his request.
In the absence of £5, I pacified GCF with a £10 Boots voucher I’d purchased as a yuletide gift for my beau Sarah. I’m unsure if there is a Boots store to redeem the voucher where he resides; however, the cloaked one seemed happy enough with the gift.
My partner wasn’t happy to hear she’d missed out on the voucher. However, promising to spare her from back shaving duties she so loathes in 2025, I assuaged this wrath… Incidentally, that’s my back not hers!… What she does with her own lumbar region’s hirsuteness is her business!
“What about your interactions with the ghost of Christmas past (GCPAST)?” I hear a Tipton woman enquire in her warm Black Country brogue.
Well to be honest, the GCPAST was and always is welcome in my headspace. Her tarry affording me fond recollections of warmth, love, and laughter from fondly held Christmases of childhood. Brio replicated in adulthood when my kids arrived on the scene in the 1990’s.
In recent years, with both of my parents now passed, these ethereal meetings with the ghost of Christmas past bring with them a tinge of sadness. Thoughts of never being able to celebrate the festive season again with them unleashing a rollercoaster ride of emotions. Happiness from recollecting numerous verve-infused yuletides in their company tainted by the emptiness brought from their forever absence.
However, whenever the melancholy born from being unable to spend Christmas with my parents appears, I think of the following words from Dr Seuss, “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”
Leave a Reply