Santa Baby, don’t hurry down the chimney tonight.

I woke up to realise it was Christmas Day, and out of a family of five, not one of us had bothered to buy, wrap, and place at least one present under the poor, pretty tree.  I felt a sudden gush of disappointment with a sugary-guilt topping.

My emotions were all topsy-turvy, and then I really woke up.  I checked the calendar to notice that to my luck, it was still the 13th of December- and then, the real guilt kicked in. My thoughts were too vague to be described.   Christmas is about ten days away, and Christmas shopping had not yet even strolled through my mind.  It occurred to me that while a decade ago I had a 3-month-Christmas-countdown, now I did not even have a 2-week-notice of it. And what’s even worse is the fact that I wasn’t even bothered to demand my annual, much loved,  Christmas envelope from my dear parents. I have noticed that my anticipation for Christmas has been lessening over the years, but have I out-grown Christmas?

After finding out that Santa Claus was a myth at the innocent age of seven, and spending another couple of years after that putting up a tray of cookies and a glass of cold milk for Santa, (which my parents had stopped being bothered to eat, desperately hoping that I will finally get the hint), my Christmas spirit had dimmed a little bit.  It felt like someone dropped a sack of shit on my imagination.  But I still looked forward to Christmas at least when the calendar flipped over to December, until recently apparently.

There’s exactly twelve days to Christmas, and really, that’s not a lot. So now, I’m putting on my Santa hat, and  going to try to embrace Christmas as much as possible. Starting off by organising my very own Christmas party. Santa baby, I really do belive in you, now let’s see if you believe in me.


An unexpected visit.

I walk outside the front door, to see my friend Amy’s (who had occasionally skipped her math lessons without her parent’s knowledge to hang around my house) Dad and brother, waiting outside my house, in an ancient car.  As if that wasn’t random enough, Amy’s Dad was, well a slightly shorter version of himself, and her brother was in speedos.  Yes speedos, and the weather here isn’t exactly  speedo-friendly at this time of the year.

After contemplating for a while, I decide to walk past them, trying not to get their attention.  They get out of the car, and come up to me asking if I knew anything about Amy’s current whereabouts.  For some reason, the speedos, contrary to everything else, were of a bright colour, orange too. And, for some odd reason, even though I was quite sure she was not, I reacted as if I was hiding her under my bed. As if she was an illegal substance, and I could sense that my face showed my fear of getting caught.  I mumbeled something about how the last time I spoke to her she was about to clean their attic.

“Attic? So she’s cleaning the lare dad!” her brother yelled out in an unusual excited manner.

My mind suddenly tried to make any connection between the possibility of Amy being a witch with all the memories I had of her.  But before I could try to reach a conclusion, her brother suddenly springs his elongated legs to my open-door garage, where my father was proudly squishing grapes with his bare feet to make his precious wine, and checked if Amy was hiding on the roof in there, and came out as her dog, Jessie.

THEN, I woke up. Is it any wonder that I wake up feeling so puzzled?  I spent all day looking at Amy with suspicion. Till it all came rushing back during my little nap time in fifth period.