It’s that time of the year, when everyone feels cosy and joyful. The fireplace is lit, with logs from the shed, the tea on your armrest is hot, and outside the snow is falling. Or so the fairy tales will make you believe.
In reality, your boss just sent you a last-minute request, your project’s due but missing feedback, the children are sick, and outside it’s four times warmer than it should be.
Regardless, the tree is decorated, courtesy of your significant other, and your attending church whilst the food is slow-cooking at home. Like every year, the visit mostly signifies tradition and maybe a last little hope to find some spiritual meaning. Your year-long absence doesn’t make you a bad person, because it’s your current attendance that counts. Do that for three decades and it can technically be called a regular visit. You’re good!
Now that the sun has set, you’re at home and the kids are told to wait in their rooms. It makes sense, those little rascals would only scare Santa, or squeeze him for all he’s got. The first failed lesson, to teach your children about sharing. But that’s the last thing on your mind. As you put the gifts under the tree there are only two thoughts it your head: where is that damn Christmas bell, and can I sneak a drink before fetching the kids?
You can, Merry Christmas!
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