Another Christmas Eve has wandered sluggishly through
another weary day and now is almost spent. The magic of the evening hours has
succumbed to a mince pie with my mug of tea, and the expectation of tomorrow is
nought but an extra glass of scotch before my dinner.
There are children in Australia, you know, who are rising to the great day even as I write, while others in California are still waiting for the magic to sprinkle its dust. I wonder how many of them consider the life they have to come, and are cognisant of the many changes they will have to embrace and maybe endure. Will they tell their own children and grandchildren of that simple, innocent time back in 2025, and will they still recall that innocence vividly when the roar of the cataract seems not so far ahead?
I’m only writing this because I’m beleaguered at every turn and wanted to write something. Does writing matter, I wonder. Does anything – even Christmas?
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