As we approach the Christmas season the notion of having a long break from work sends me into a state of panic.
The daily routine suddenly disappears, the town is empty once the shopping madness is over, and people either go to the country to eat and drink themselves silly, or stay in London, bored and glued to their television set out of sheer desperation.
Families congregate and exchange presents but it isn’t long after the initial calm that they begin to argue and quarrel and make the atmosphere charged with animosity. The dream of compatibility becomes a myth and past disagreements surface to ruin the great family reunions that most of us dread.
We eat and drink to excess, feel bloated most of the time and break wind to the embarrassment and shock of others who invariably pretend to have exquisite manners to put us to shame. We finally stagger to bed at a late hour with our stomachs bursting to capacity. We toss and turn, snore in a pig-like manner and God knows what else; I dread to think.
I count the days when the so-called festivities come to an end and pick myself up from a somnific bodily delirium and try to get in top gear again, and enjoy the stress of a proper working day.
Then I thank the Lord for having survived the Christmas ordeal unscathed, and still raring to go.