Ah, Christmas is coming, and the elves are wrapping the presents and the reindeer are being hooked up to the sleigh, and all is good with the world and I’m FREEZING.
What is wrong with my house? What is wrong with this world that I have to sit here and type while my poor feet grow steadily colder? My poor, poor feet. Have I ever told you how pretty my feet are? Oh they are pretty. Far and wide, people sing songs about my feet and their prettiness. Many a Foot Competition I have won because of these two beauties. And now look at them, shivering in my boots like two hairless ferrets in a bucket. A tragedy, I tell you.
Other writers (lesser writers) in other blogs (lesser blogs) will no doubt wish all their readers a Merry Christmas or a Happy Holiday or other such tripe and nonsense, but not this one. Bah humbug, say I. And if the ghosts of past, present and future elect to visit me at all over the next few days, they shall taste the fury of my blade!
(By fury I mean annoyance. And by blade I mean spoon.)
My Christmas presents, I fear, will be somewhat lacking in size, quantity, and existence this year. My sisters announced last week that they would DO something, instead of BUY something. Last year they did the same, and I pointed to my rather drab downstairs bathroom and asked, “Can you brighten this up?”
I was expecting nothing more than a small table, maybe with a narrow vase atop a doily, some potpourri perhaps. You know, the silly things only truly odd people know how to arrange. They arrived over, surveyed the bathroom, spoke at length about nothing in particular, and left. They didn’t return. Eight months later I bought some potpourri myself, and now it sits, somewhat forlornly, in the sink.
So I was not altogether thrilled by the prospect of another “gift”. But both sisters are pregnant now, and my mother insists that they must be treated delicately. I reasoned that an entire room, no matter how small, was simply too much to ask for last year. So this time, I told them that all I need is a new curtain rail. One single curtain rail. That’s all. Just one.
A curtain rail. For Christmas.
They arrived over yesterday, surveyed the window in question, spoke at length about what it’s like to be pregnant, and left.
I rather fear that I shall never see this curtain rail. They didn’t even take any measurements, for God’s sake.