Methinks it is time for a big cuppa tea. If only I hadn't finished my P.G. Wodehouse this morning. I could use some fresh Jeeves. Argh. Bad case of the mean reds - I feel all icky and anxious for no particular reason. Like something important has been piling up behind me and I don't know what it is - won't know - until it bursts out at me in hideous proportions. I also have no right to complain of being lonesome when I am home alone of my own free will coz I didn't want to go a-caroling. My sentences are too long, dar-nit.
I am beginning to hate Christmassy stuff. I hate Santa. I hate fake snow. I hate stupid reindeer; deer are a fernal, noxious pest in Australia. I hate the colours red and green together. And the ugly t-shirts with stupid slogans. I hate pine-cone centerpieces. I nearly hate tinsel.
The Christmas story, THE Christmas story, is so heart-wrenchingly, achingly, personally, nobly beautiful that I can't help but feel angsty about its usurpation (and no, I'm not sure if that's a real word).
I wish I were born about 100 years ago, with nothing better to do than sit around, embroider cushions, write brave and daring novels and, through prickly and interesting social rules, find people to connect with.
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