Exquisite Joy

Ah, the joy of Christmas is upon us. You know what I mean, that perfect moment when you realise that all your credit cards are maxed out and you still have to buy presents for your family.

Oh the joy of it.

Then there are the parties, office, friends, family or just one you stumbled upon. The amazing feeling of that first festive drink soon followed by the "I should never have had that last drink" moment generally served with regurgitated half digested mince pies slathered in beer sauce.

Oh the joy if it.

Shopping for Christmas food is somewhat akin to providing provisions for all the ravening hordes of Ghengis Khan. The entire contents of provender shops are poked into bags and carriers which are transported home to languish in dark corners until the smell of rotting food finally reminds you that they were bought for Christmas and it is now nearly Whitsun; all those mint chocolates, toffees, candy canes, mince pies, iced cakes and all the trimmings of course including brussel sprouts and chestnuts none of which anyone wanted but had to be bought, just in case, let alone the bags of nuts no one could crack or the clementines that dried to an orange version of a golf ball sat in a fruit bowl offering their sweetness and sneaky pips to one and all.

Oh the joy of it.

And the Muzak, such sweet renderings of classic yuletide songs that generally induce migraine within seconds or it is Kirsty McColl screeching alongside a more than croaky Pogues eulogising about some fantastical NY city.

Oh the joy of it.

Then the fatal day arrives at an ungodly hour for parents, whose little cherubs have decided that 4 am IS morning and time to see how much Santa has spent this year. For those of us without incumbent children, a lie in until one of the brood decides it is time to visit at around 8am to 'gift' us. Mountains of carefully wrapped presents are reduced to unwanted dross and tossed aside in seconds  never to see light of day save to be re given next year to some poor unsuspecting person.

Oh the joy of it.

Once the alcohol and dinner have wreaked havoc with our digestives systems, all is quiet save for the snores and farts of Christmas day afternoon, while the Queen regally extols us with her views.

Oh the joy of it.

Boxing Day is a day of recovery for some, if not most, but some of the more mentally challenged seek out sport or outdoor activities, sometimes for the  first time as it is the festive 'must do', who then return hours later swearing 'never do'.

Oh the joy of it.

Then we can all return to the normal, grumpy, immoral hordes that we are in real life and leave the fantasy behind for another year.

Oh the exquisite joy of it.