I’m sitting here on Christmas Eve and I’m of the opinion I may be going just ever so slightly mad.
It’s not because I take my own life into my hands anytime I step outside the door, the 3 inches of ice up and down our road testing my already dubiously misaligned centre of gravity. Cranial blood on fresh snow is a tremendous sight.
It’s not because people have gone demented. Even though there’s no milk in the supermarket, the vegetable aisle is a fire hazard, and I saw an old woman bludgeon a teenage boy to death for the last six pack of Heineken. The shops do open again on Saturday, right?
It’s not because I’m twice as drunk as I ever am because my biblically pregnant other half is sipping horse chestnut juice or some such, leaving me to ‘waste not, want not’ and finish every bottle that gets opened. Those nightclub sized bottles of gin were a bad idea.
It’s not because I’ve noticed that I have a bigger gut, more stretch marks and higher blood pressure than the aforementioned human incubator, meaning that either they squirted that wallpaper paste into the wrong half of this couple or I need to eat a vegetable occasionally.
It’s not because I can’t come up with a second verse to the ‘night before Christmas’ beyond:
It was the night before Christmas, when all through the house
The foetus was kicking, trying hard to get out’
Creativity is dead, I can live with that.
It’s because now, today, on Christmas Eve we are just 7 weeks and 6 days away.
7 weeks, 6 days.
Fa la la la lah, la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!