I'm in my annual bah humbug phase of December when Christmas is looming around the corner but the three month run-up has already f.f..festived me right off.
I am DONE with people asking me whether I'm all ready for Christmas. I'm not. I never am and I won't be until about 4am on Christmas Day morning when I've wrapped the last present and danced the dance of the nervous stocking dropper. And not in a good way.
I tell those that ask I'm ready though, even the ones who ask before the end of November when I would much rather heft an axe from my handbag by way of reply. What? Do you expect me to have a Christmas reality meltdown in the middle of the shop, supermarket, bank, park, on the bus and/or at the schoolgate? Really? Of course I lie.
And I hate shops at Christmas, all the shops, and I hate supermarkets. I particularly hate supermarkets. I start hating these, to be fair, around mid-September when the Christmas fare hits the shelves but as the festive season hoves ever nearer, the staff take to wearing santa hats, antlers or artfully arranged bits of tinsel. And they smile! Sometimes some of them even look like they mean it, but as they've been listening to a continuous looped tape of Bing Crosby crooning about a White Christmas for a solid eight hours every day for three months, they're probably just borderline psychotic.
Not as psychotic as some of the customers though. There are places that are safer to be than a supermarket the weekend before Christmas; in a war-zone, on an erupting volcano, in a zeppelin with a slow puncture or on the Titanic for example. And the queues to escape the Titanic were probably shorter than the one to the checkout too.
And I hate Mulled Wine... it's warm wine. WARM. WINE. What the merry fuck is that all about? And turkeys. They can't give them away for most of the year, but come December they're suddenly the most precious foodstuff in the market, worth their weight in gold and priced accordingly. For that price, I want a turkey that get's itself up at ridiculous o'clock on Christmas morning and flings itself into the oven, perhaps only stopping to peel the potatoes and slice the parsnips on it's way in. But does it? Does it f....
I will be spending the intervening time between now and Christmas looking for my festive spirit. I suspect it may be in a bottle of gin. Or two.