Well, it’s turned cold outside tonight, and when it turns cold outside it soon becomes cold inside. The first thing he does, therefore, is sit on his hands at the computer so as to relieve them of some of the chill. But while he’s doing that he’s unable to type or even read the next chapter of Shirley, and so he thinks. And after he’s thought for a while he feels the need to write something in consequence. Out come the hands and apply themselves to the keyboard.
One of his thoughts was about all the children who are currently engaged in a troubled sleep – troubled only from the excitement of knowing that tomorrow is Christmas Day, and that time is exasperatingly tardy when Christmas Day approaches. Their resting minds know that the clock is ticking and will eventually reach a point when they will be able to switch on the light (for it will probably be early) and go in search of gay wrappings hiding a multitude of pleasures. That was what he did as a child (in the days before he became cynical and tired of the daily round.)
But then he thinks of the children in poor, or maybe abusive, households who have no gay wrappings to search for. Do we still have such children in these enlightened times? I think we probably do. And he thinks of those who have lost loved ones to the pandemic, and who will be waking on Christmas Day to an empty space probably for the first time in their lives. He thinks of those shivering in feeble boats crossing dangerous seas for no better reason than to escape violence, persecution and poverty, hoping that charity will prevail and bring rescue. Christmas is, after all, supposedly about charity. But some of them won’t even have a Christmas Day, now or ever again, because the deep sea will take them and relieve them of their misery. And what of those on terra firma who have no walls to shield them from the cruel frosts of winter? How will they be spending their Christmas Eve?
And that’s when he thinks that sometimes he would rather not think at all, but stride carelessly across a sunlit meadow, his body replete with the health, strength and vigour of youth, daring to do all that may become a man (even though he's read that he who dares do more is none.)
His free bandwidth beckons at midnight, and then he will be able to amuse himself with shallow pleasures beamed in from cyberspace while the top of the scotch bottle begs to be loosened. And tomorrow will be another (Christmas) day.
(And still he wishes everyone peace, joy and happiness. Christmas should be no time for ghosts.)
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