I've always thought Christmas dinner is an over-rated meal. A good meal is one thing but after all, you can only eat what you eat, so why all this excess? Our Christmas dinner (I don't bother making a starter) will consist of roasted pork, crackling, swede mash, roast potatoes and parsnips, sprouts of course and gravy. It will be accompanied by a chilled bottle of Gwurtztraminer. We don't usually have room for pudding but I have two of those little individual ones just in case and some clotted cornish cream.
Many people will be working on Christmas Day. My husband used to when he was a nurse. Key workers are still needed no matter what day it is. Thanks to all of you who, during this dreadful year, have kept going, kept caring. I hope and pray that next year we will see an end to this terrible pandemic and that soon there will be a government in this country who will not only recognise the worth of workers, but reward them for their devotion. Teachers, nurses, shop-workers, delivery men, cleaners, ambulance drivers, firemen -- all the people who do the real work while politicians sit in their shiny-arsed suits polishing their parliamentary privileges.
Well let this story be a little warning to you!
Elfday
by Oonah V Joslin
The elves pushed their chairs back and groaned. No one spoke.
“There’s nothing like a good Christmas roast,” said Glitter. It sounded a bit forced.
“Best ever!” said Gretchen. That sounded equally forced. There was a kind of finality to this feast that required a degree of solemnity. It was the end of an era.
“Tinsel, you out-sparkled yourself, girl.”
Tinsel blushed, knowing it.
“Yep! Here’s to you!” Spice emptied his flagon and farted loudly. The others ignored his lack of sensitivity.
Time was, a hundred elves would be seated around tables here in the workshop, singing and celebrating the success of the season well into New Year. Tinsel had cooked turkeys and hams, jellies and puddings that would do the heart good to see and beers, breads and home made sloe gin. That was before -- they were just a handful now and they weren’t exactly celebrating. There’d have been more fun at a wake.
“What do we do now?” Pickles, always ahead of every game, sounded unsure for a change.
“The dishes?” said Gretchen, hopefully.
Pickles gave an exasperated sigh. “I mean what do we DO now?”
“As in?” enquired Sprinkle.
“As IN – for instance, do we open the mail?”
There was already a pile stacked up in the corner and they all knew that if it wasn’t tackled bit by bit, it would build to a mountain in no time at all. However, none of it was addressed to them. Suddenly the dishes seemed to be the least of their problems.
“It doesn’t seem right somehow.” Glitter’s voice sounded small. “I know we used to help with the mail but…”
“We’re going to argue ethics now?” said Pickles.
“You mean we should just carry on – like before?” Franzipan had always been a keen worker. He specialized in handmade wooden toys but the big stores with their mass produced mouldeds, meant he was the only one of his department left. It seemed there was little demand for craftsmanship. Santa had been going for cheaper options for years. It was more ‘cost effective’.
All that was part of the original dispute.
“It’s a consideration,” said Pickles, self appointed shop steward through all the ‘unpleasantness’ of the past months.
Franzipan had become bitter. “Whoa! Weren’t we made redundant? Let go? Cast aside? ‘Cost cutting exercises,’ remember? The ‘economic down-turn’? ‘Trimming the fat…’”
“We could become a co-operative. Go it alone,’ said Pickles.
“But nobody can afford Christmas any more. That’s what he said…” Glitter’s voice kind of swallowed itself.
“That’s right, comrade. And why should we work now? We have a roof over our head… Plenty here to eat.” Spice rubbed his rotund belly contentedly and picked a strand of white hair from between his teeth. “Tough old bird! Had to be – old timer like that… Been everywhere… Done everything…”
Franzipan looked away in disgust. “Ghoul! Nobody said you had to eat boots and all.”
Spice just laughed.
“Plenty of what to eat?” asked Gretchen.
“Venison. We have a breeding herd.”
“But I like the deer.”
“Me too, Gretchen but as Santa himself pointed out, ‘there’s no room for sentiment in times like these’ – nice with redcurrant jelly on the side too – you can manage that, can’t you, Tinsel?”
“Just as long as I don’t have to behead them myself this time.”
“Involuntary Severance,” reminded Pickles, “and again as Santa said, “‘commerce is our business.’ He’d be the first to realise it’s nothing personal. Now -- what about that mail?”
“I think we ought,” said Sprinkle.
“But we can’t deliver toys without logistics.” Franzipan thought of the beautiful sleigh he’d made so long ago. It had been replaced by ugly, fuel-guzzling lorries and now sat rotting in a shed, eaten away by profit.
“Someone should let the kiddies down gently. Whatever else happens, Santa definitely isn’t coming to town this year.”
It was a hideous truth. Spice burped louder than ever.
Published in 10FLASH
