It's the fucking build up that kills me every time. No, not the build up of stomach gas after eating yet another of my own dodgy curries. Nor is it the build up of traffic which seems to worsen at the instant I swipe out at work every day, meaning a good 10 minutes or so are added onto my commute.
I am talking about Christmas. It's really in my face now. It's been gradually gaining momentum since late September but now, it's everywhere. Businesses are bedecked in fantastic arrays of lights. Homes will follow soon. Every time I open a newspaper or my email there's something with a festive theme.
Yes it does gladden the heart. The gloom of shitty weather and evenings dark as the devil's arsehole is somewhat alleviated by the twinkling lights and tinsel and trees in shop windows. And I know that my annual tradition of battering my liver with alcoholic substances will soon begin in earnest.
It's still early enough not to have your ears raped by awful Christmas music everywhere you go (I think, at least. Maybe others have heard some already.)
What's pissing me off about Christmas right now is how some folk at work are already planning what they're going to buy for their beloved offspring. Loudly. And even more loudly when they elaborate on how much they are going to spend (more than I earn in a week, some of them). And - now this is what's really grinding my gears - louder still when I am within earshot. Not to mention dangling little presents for their darlings that they happened on while they were in town at lunchtime in my face:
Colleague: Look what I bought for little Petey!
Govstooge: Yeah. Great.
Colleague: You haven't looked properly. Look again! Isn't it lovely!
Govstooge: Err... what exactly is it?
You see, I am not a parent. There are no little Govstooges running around my pristine house. My DVD collection is bereft of Dora and Barney. I have never seen or heard High School Musical. My car has no child seat, meaning more room for those important beer runs.
My colleagues are aware of this and some of them cannot understand why, at my age, I have not produced progeny. Why, when they were this age, they were already picking out communion outfits! What is wrong with Govstooge? Let's awaken that latent maternal instinct by bragging loudly about our kids when she is around, so that she'll suddenly turn broody and then we'll have something in common with her! And we can compare how much we're going to spend on them at their birthdays and Christmas!
Fuck off.
Kids are great. They're cute, funny, silly and you can fuck with their heads by telling them you're Kylie Minogue on your days off.
That doesn't mean I want to have any right now though.
I'm having way too much fun being feckless and not much more than an overgrown kid myself.
But if I see those Santa websites open on any screen in our section again, I'm temporarily revoking internet privileges. At least until December.
Bah humbug!
I am talking about Christmas. It's really in my face now. It's been gradually gaining momentum since late September but now, it's everywhere. Businesses are bedecked in fantastic arrays of lights. Homes will follow soon. Every time I open a newspaper or my email there's something with a festive theme.
Yes it does gladden the heart. The gloom of shitty weather and evenings dark as the devil's arsehole is somewhat alleviated by the twinkling lights and tinsel and trees in shop windows. And I know that my annual tradition of battering my liver with alcoholic substances will soon begin in earnest.
It's still early enough not to have your ears raped by awful Christmas music everywhere you go (I think, at least. Maybe others have heard some already.)
What's pissing me off about Christmas right now is how some folk at work are already planning what they're going to buy for their beloved offspring. Loudly. And even more loudly when they elaborate on how much they are going to spend (more than I earn in a week, some of them). And - now this is what's really grinding my gears - louder still when I am within earshot. Not to mention dangling little presents for their darlings that they happened on while they were in town at lunchtime in my face:
Colleague: Look what I bought for little Petey!
Govstooge: Yeah. Great.
Colleague: You haven't looked properly. Look again! Isn't it lovely!
Govstooge: Err... what exactly is it?
You see, I am not a parent. There are no little Govstooges running around my pristine house. My DVD collection is bereft of Dora and Barney. I have never seen or heard High School Musical. My car has no child seat, meaning more room for those important beer runs.
My colleagues are aware of this and some of them cannot understand why, at my age, I have not produced progeny. Why, when they were this age, they were already picking out communion outfits! What is wrong with Govstooge? Let's awaken that latent maternal instinct by bragging loudly about our kids when she is around, so that she'll suddenly turn broody and then we'll have something in common with her! And we can compare how much we're going to spend on them at their birthdays and Christmas!
Fuck off.
Kids are great. They're cute, funny, silly and you can fuck with their heads by telling them you're Kylie Minogue on your days off.
That doesn't mean I want to have any right now though.
I'm having way too much fun being feckless and not much more than an overgrown kid myself.
But if I see those Santa websites open on any screen in our section again, I'm temporarily revoking internet privileges. At least until December.
Bah humbug!
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment