So, it’s 12 days until Christmas and there’s so much to do, I still need to buy presents, I’ve only bought two!
But the shops are so frantic, the shoppers are all crazed, the only spirit I’m getting into is a vodka induced haze.
The magazine covers feature wondrous festive scenes, with platters of exotic meats, homemade chocolates and cheese.
Oh, how I wish my home could look like these! Imagine ornaments that match, covering magnificent trees!
But alas my turkey’s disappeared, I think the kids set him free… And most of my decorations date back to 1993.
The stockings still aren’t hung by the chimney with care, because I simply can’t find them, and I’ve looked everywhere!
My halls are decked with just dog hair and dust, the bank accounts are empty, it seems Santa’s gone bust.
Perhaps I will just tell the kids, that this year they’re on Santa’s naughty list, for stealing Christmas cookies and sharpening Candy canes into shiv’s.
Ho, ho, ho little girls and boys this year there won’t be any gifts, he’ll just put coal in your stockings! If I can find them that is…
Hubby said “lets have Christmas lunch in the garden this year, chuck some prawns on the Barbie and lay back with a beer”.
But there’s so much to do, the whole family will be here! Salads and snags simply won’t cut it I fear…
Hubby told me “it’s fine, relax and stop trying to be a poser!” But my grass is dead, cause the neighbourhood kids stole all my hoses.
It would be sad, since we just lost the Easter Bunny to mixomatosis, but I swear Rudolph’s going to get lead poisoning if he keeps eating my roses!
Maybe I could just find a way to cancel Christmas this year? After all, I’m running out of Valium and my Doctors not here.
I could give the family all a reason why they shouldn’t appear, really Uncle Gav, wouldn’t you rather just stay home and drink beer?
Bah humbug I say to the ghosts of Christmas past, each year it comes quicker, times moving too damn fast.
So, this year children instead of a plate of cookies by the door, please just leave Santa a bottle of whisky and a straw.
The titillations, tribulations, vicissitudes, and oxymoronic cogitations of a very lucky and unfortunate Neuroscientist with Bipolar Disorder
It was almost funny.
Torn. Broken. Writer. “For me, writing is an art of converting feelings to words.”
Read between the lines
The ups and downs of my recovery
On Being Creative, A Mother & Bipolar
Stationery Enthusiast & Mental Wellness Advocate
Speaking Out on the Unspeakable
Creative Writing. Book Reviews. Adult Humour.
NOT ALL WHO SUFFER ARE STRONG
Shattering the Magic Mirror