Becoming Bob.

I just asked myself why I haven’t made one of my customary Christmas posts today. The answer is simple enough: too many dolorous items of intelligence kept my spirits low and precluded any semblance of will to make them.

But the day was not entirely lost. This afternoon, it being a foggy Christmas Eve, I decided to finish the batch of book-keeping work I had left to do for my mechanic friend. I thought it a suitably Christmas Eve-ish thing to do, a Bob Cratchit thing to do. How better to evoke the Christmas spirit than by emulating one of its favourite creations?

I thought I might receive a visit from carol singers, or two men seeking alms for the poor, or my landlord’s nephew hoping to find him here so as to invite him to dine with them on the morrow. There were no visitors. And it is also a fact that I have no wife, no daughter called Martha, and I eat neither goose nor turkey. But otherwise, the simulation seemed apposite. My muse tells me that I may take the whole day off tomorrow.