2023 is coming to a close. For some of you it is already over.
Lo, how a Rose e'er blooming. Today is also the seventh day of Christmas. Seven swans a-swimming. Sent to you by your True Love. The seven Gifts of the Holy Ghost: wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, and fear of the Lord. As taught to children in singing rhyme over Christmastide when it was illegal to teach the Catechism in jolly old England.
We spend time reflecting at this time of year. Looking ahead. Regretting our consumption of mince pies and cheese, as the wife does. Basil — the rogue cat, deceiver of men, bird killer, sofa scratcher, human bed seeker — has no regrets. He vomited in the house the other day. An early Christmas present, perhaps. Or a display of familiarity. He will have no New Year’s resolutions, for he is not, unlike us, a rational animal. So he will probably bring a dead rat in through the back door before the echoes of the Three Kings of the Orient have faded away.
She bore to us a Saviour, when half spent was the night. And then by Candlemas, on 2 February, the festivities will all be done. For many they will be a depressingly distant memory; made worse by the infernal manifestation of “Dry January”. By that time, the mother-in-law and I would have drunk enough Baileys to sink the entire fleet of the Irish navy.
Then Lent will be upon us, Easter being early-ish this year. And there will be too much chocolate and Lindt bunnies and hot cross buns and mini eggs. And the wife will declare that she feels sick and is going on a “diet”, while the mother-in-law will ask if it is time to stock up on Baileys for Christmas. And the children will be chomping at the bit to head out into the parks and play football as the nights get lighter and the mud a little less heavier.
And then it will be May. And the joys of Spring and early Summer will be upon us. And I will probably be promising you all that my next novella or novel will soon be available in all disreputable bookstores. And you will start saving your bitcoins and dogecoins and dineros and lira and fake Monopoly money. And some of you may sell a kidney. And I will disappoint you again with a false dawn.
And there may be an election for a new government in this land and politicians will lie through their teeth and we will believe them and mark a tick against their names. And nothing will change and things will probably get worse.
England will then crash out of a football tournament, despite being favourites and having been given a favourable draw. And the boys will cry and I will tell them that supporting a nation such as England in any sporting endeavour is an act of torture that is not so much self-inflicted, but character building, and great preparation for World War III — when the barbarians will be by the Cliffs of Dover and the Communists will reveal themselves among our own ranks at an appointed time and all hell will break loose and we will cry to Heaven for mercy (what? — Ed).
And another school year will be over. And the sun will shine for a bit and there may be talk of a hosepipe ban or some other such nonsense. And the trains will not run on a couple of days due to the heat melting the tracks or some other such insanity. And there will be riots on the streets when there will be no decent sport on television and all “educational” establishments will be shut. And the nights will be long and people will complain about not having air-conditioning in England and the supermarkets will sell out of fans and people will place wet flannels on their heads and the wife will complain about being too hot and Basil — the rogue cat, deceiver of men, bird killer, sofa scratcher, human bed seeker — will bring in a dead bird and vomit on the kitchen floor. And the mother-in-law will talk of the first signs of Autumn.
And then the French will host the Olympics and probably make a complete hash of it — as did that horrendous midget Napoleon when he tried to march on Moscow in the dead of winter (what? — Ed), when there was no thought from him or his generals that Isaiah had foretold it. And some athletes will win some medals, and some will cheat, and some will make some cheap political stunts and a select few will leave us with a photograph to cherish for as long as we are here.
And a new football season will start and the children will demand that I spend £4,000 on new football kits and book the best seats for the Champions League final.
And then school will start again and the children will complain about homework and then there will talk of trick and treating and fireworks and darker nights. And I will promise you that, yes, this time, my new novella will soon be out. And you will drain your bank accounts and remortgage your properties and sell your vehicles and I will again disappoint you with another false dawn.
And then there will be an election in America and someone will get elected. And people will scream on the TV and on social media. And turkeys will wonder why they are the butt of a recurring joke about how useless they are at determining their own futures (are they rational animals? — Ed). And then thoughts will turn to Thanksgiving and the turkeys will turn to run — but it will be too late. And the nights will be dark and people will start looking for their Christmas sweaters and will put up their Christmas trees before it is even time to open the Advent calendars.
And the kitchen cupboards will be full of bottles of Baileys and we will start writing Christmas cards and the wife and children will demand that the Christmas tree goes up and I will relent. And then we will listen to carols and temporary Christmas radio stations and Basil — the rogue cat, deceiver of men, bird killer, sofa scratcher, human bed seeker — will vomit in the kitchen.
Of Jesse's lineage coming, as men of old have sung. It came, a flower bright, amid the cold of winter, when half-spent was the night.
And then it will be the first day of Christmas and we will welcome The Partridge in the Pear Tree. And we will open presents. And we will eat too much. And we will drink Baileys.
And we will wonder how it is that time of year again.
Progress report:
The Fragment from The Shroud, my new novel, has all its covers ready. Last proofreading session is underway.
The Anchorite, my new novella, is being edited.
Take it easy. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year — and thanks for reading.