My wife and I are not religious. Or, to be absolutely precise: I am an atheist; my wife believes in Santa Claus. She believes in celebrating the season: with lights, food, decorations (of all and sundry), family, music, friends, presents, Alastair Sim, baking, nostalgia, and of course, booze. (Yowza. I'm in.)
Yes, there is a little girl living here. And she's in her sixties. I learned long ago that little girls are tenacious... you can neither defeat them with logic nor be truly happy living in seasonal opposition. You gotta go with the flow.
So, at this time of year I attempt to make my little girl happy. It's worked for forty years.
Llewellen: move the tree a bit to the right and straighten the Arsenal ornament. Good. Perfect, my old son. Now, break out the beer and the Smoking Bishop. And expect a raise come the morrow.
Merry Christmas, kids. Whatever Christmas means to you.
4 comments:
We watched that earlier tonight. George C. Scott was pretty awesome, I must say.
-W (didn't feel like signing in)
Hah, your wife is young in spirit! Send her my good wishes, Doctor.
Hippy Folly Day!
Greetings, all.
Yeah, I love me some Dickens.
I've forwarded your good wishes, GB.
And Omar... many thanks for the John tune.
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