A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 23rd -- Colder Pencils

The thought behind this story really began way back when I was little and trying to colour in  a snowy picture. We had some of those colouring pencils that changed colour in the middle. You sharpened both ends. There was a very light blue and a very light mauve, pale pink and even white -- because we used to sometimes draw on grey paper. I don't know whether I ever said it, but I remember having the thought that for a Winter scene I needed colder pencils. I was too young to know about highlighting and I'm not a very good artist anyway. As my mother used to point out -- a bad workman always blames his tools. But there you go -- I just needed to put down the pencils and use Words.

T h e  F r o s t  L a d y

Celia stood with the key in her hand, beaming in front of, literally, her dream home. “Ian, it’s exact!” She crouched down. “Emma, do you like our new house?” But she could tell by the look of excitement on her daughter’s face that it was time to use that key.

As a child, Celia had done a dozen pictures of her dream house but never got it quite perfect. She’d kept them all. Maybe she'd get them framed now. Always mixed woodland to the left, tall conifers marching down to meet it, to the right a five bar gate and dry stone wall, the countryside falling away towards a sleepy river valley. She’d shown Ian the sketches – shared the dream but how he’d found this place, a sheer fluke, a wrong turning that led him miles out of his way. The cottage itself with its leaded windowpanes, roof criss-crossed with grey slate, white-washed stonework and fir-green door looked so much like her drawings, it was unnerving, but not quite the same, not quite. Of course it was still autumn and all of her pictures were snowy.

By winter they’d settled in. Emma liked drawing too. She used to draw Mummy, Daddy and Emma. Then she’d started putting a bump where David was – Celia was sure it was a boy this time. Recently Emma had become obsessed with drawing the house. But Celia could understand that.

“I need colder pencils, Mummy,” she said one day.

“Colder pencils?”

“Yes. The Frost Lady said.”

“Well, if the Frost Lady says so…” Celia played along.

All shades of blue, lavender, mauve, cream, grey were deployed, sparkle was added, Emma was never quite satisfied with the result. “I want to draw it like the Frost Lady,” she said.

“Who's this Frost Lady?” asked Ian.

“Every child has an imaginary friend–or a dream house. She’ll grow out of it.”

Christmas Eve the first snow was lying thick. Emma had been so excited about Santa coming but in the morning she was not in her bed. She wasn’t in the house or garden. There was no sign of her – no footprints in the vicinity, no tire tracks, nothing. Celia felt cold grip her heart. Rescuers joined the search. Day after day it continued and so did the cold spell.

Celia was due and she wanted Ian to stay with her. Why had she gone out? Where? “I know she’s out there, Ian kept saying,” as if the affirmation could work a miracle. He kept going into her room to check – looking out the window. That was what he was doing when he saw the finger draw, in frost, a perfect picture of the cottage. Suddenly Emma was outside. He'd seen her through the window, as if she was part of the picture, holding the hand of a tall woman dressed in white.

“Please, Ian.”

“I swear, Celia! Would I make up a thing like that?”

“Nobody’s saying you made it up, Ian. We’re both under a lot of strain. Maybe you saw what you wanted to see.”

“I know what I bloody saw, Cecelia!”

He stormed out to search the woods one more time. He didn't return.

Celia had no idea how long she’d been lying there. There was an icy pain inside of her, cold where the baby’s warmth should be. She’d tried to call for help but there was no signal and the lines were down too. The snow lay ever thicker outside. The fire had long extinguished. The place was freezing.

Night turned to day. In the thin dawn light, she thought she saw – no, she was sure of it, her picture of the house – or Emma’s picture of it, as if through a misted mirror -- a reflection of the house. That was it! That was why it had never been quite right. It was a reflection of the house, etched in frost. And now she saw there were three figures in the picture. One was Ian. The second was Emma. And the third – it must surely be the Frost Lady. Celia saw she was holding something -- a baby.

“No!” Celia screamed. She gathered all her strength and as she ran straight through the window, an icicle pierced her heart.

Copyright: © 2009 Oonah V Joslin: Published in MicroHorror

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 22nd -- Picture Book

I once received a very large, it seemed to me to be very large, and beautifully illustrated picture book of Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tales. I imagine that it was age specific and that I was meant to be able to read it but I was a very poor, and thus reluctant, reader and I managed to hide it very well. I loved making up stories though.

Picture Book

There was once a little girl called Paige whose most prized possession was a very large picture book full of fairy tales. She had to be careful that her little brother didn’t get hold of her new book for he would surely rip the pages and cover the pretty pictures in crayon.

 

Every night Mother would read to them and Paige would follow with her fingers as best she could, the words of each sentence, and look at the delicately colored pictures with awe. Chapter by chapter she learned about the Brave Tin Soldier, The Ugly Duckling that became a swan and The Emperor in his Birthday Suit. But the story that moved her most was the plight of the Little Match Girl.

 

Then one day her brother was taken ill. He cried and cried with pain and when the pain lessened he looked limp and tired. A fire was lit in the bedroom and the doctor was called out. He pronounced that the little boy needed urgent treatment and that until transport came, he must not be allowed to go to sleep. There was great commotion about the house. Paige felt she was just in the way.

 

“What shall I do?” she asked.

 “Petey mustn’t go to sleep,” said her mother. “You can sit with him and make sure he stays awake.”

 Paige sat by her brother feeling helpless and small. It was close to bedtime. The firelight played on the walls and ceiling so, she could barely stay awake herself. Suddenly she remembered her book. She would read him a story to keep them both awake.

Paige fetched the book. “Now, I want you to listen to me Petey,” she said. “Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Once upon a time…” she began and she got to the end of the first sentence but she couldn’t remember where to go from there. Did your finger go down and across or across and then down? Oh, if only she could remember the story!

 She tried reading from left to right: “ Th-gi-at-rs de-kool d-na sm-ra de-red…” then from right to left: “They s - sh – ood – ow - shold-e-red arms and look - ed s – st – st – r”

 She didn’t know half these words.

 

“Petey, are you still awake?” she asked and shook him to make sure he was. “You’re not to go to sleep, hear?”

Paige leafed through the book until she came to a story she knew well. “The Little Match Girl,” she started. “Once upon a time…” then she looked at Petey’s little body lying beneath the covers in the flickering firelight and he looked so white and pale, she wondered whether his star would fall that night?

“I don’t like this story,” she said. “Would you like to look at the pictures, Petey?” and she began to make up wonderful stories of her own to go with the pictures and every now and then to keep his attention she asked, “What do you call this Swan, Petey?” or “Do you know what color this is?” “How many ducks are on the pond, Petey? Petey?” She shook him gently. “Petey?” she urged.

“What?” he murmured sleepily.

“When you’re better, you can have my picture book if you want.”

 

An ambulance came and they whisked him away.

Petey’s star did not fall that night -- but neither of them ever forgot the story.

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 21st -- An Alignment in Poetry

Tonight's the night! A rare planetary alignment of Saturn and Jupiter is set to give us a spectacular Star of Bethlehem event. Some people are saying this -- but they are two dots in the sky and they aren't stars but planets and it'll probably be peeing down in Northumberland and we won't see them anyway. It doesn't mean a thing that, from the point of view of our tiny 'blue dot', two of the larger planets in our insignificant solar system appear in line. 

I am not saying that the awe we feel in viewing the night sky is misplaced. It deserves our attention and our study. The great array makes us feel like small creatures, and we are small creatures, but our brains allow us to think -- and if only we would. If only we would let go of superstitions, predjudices, animosity, cruelty and war. If only we would become creators, not destroyers, maybe we could be greater.

On this Solstice, Yuletide, mid-Winter's Day I've aligned two poems for you. I hope you enjoy the juxtaposition.

Wise Men don't do it that way

Three idiots set out one day
to find a baby so they say
and followed a comet or some star or other
to find this newborn and his mother.
They didn’t bring them Christmas hampers
booze or chocolates, flowers or Pampers,
but embalming fluid, incense and gold.
At least that’s how the story’s told.
Apparently they found King Herod instead
and some other babies ended up dead.
That’s what you get if you follow astrology
instead of using Sat Nav technology.
You end up in entirely the wrong place
with all the eggs in history on your face!

Every Child

There are the Winter stars

strung out like Christmas lights

across the night's expanse.

There's Mars red as firelight glow.

It must once have seen it's own snow

its memories preserved in permafrost.

There's the Plough – the Big Dipper

looking much like a sleigh.

We name non-existent patterns far away

so they seem real to us. Each child of Earth

looks towards the skies

in wonder, anticipation or despair.

It isn't Christmas everywhere.

Christmas is not for all. If only

we considered every child as special.

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 20th -- Wish I'd written that!

Continuing this weekend's theme of starry stuff, I am posting a slightly revised appreciation of a poem by Ron Lavalette.

Why I love “Outside the Inn” by Ron Lavalette

An editorial by Oonah V Joslin Winter 2014: revised 2020

Outside the Inn

by Ron. Lavalette

There would, of course, have to be a star
—as there always is— but
only a single star, luminous

beckoning above the merest shelter.
Around the meager dwelling,
its wattle daubed with ordinary

midnight, there would of course be
shepherds, nodding, and music of
sheep bells a softly ringing lullaby.

There would have to be an angel.
The sky, a clear intoxicant, would
open and the angel would sing

and the shepherds, keeping their sheep
would have to spread the word
and be certain.

Ron. Lavalette lives on the Canadian border in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. His debut chapbook, Fallen Away, from Finishing Line Press, is now available at all standard outlets. In addition, more than 200 of his creations (poetry and short prose) have appeared in journals, reviews, and anthologies ranging alphabetically from Able Muse and the Anthology of New England Poets through the World Haiku Review. A reasonable sample of his published work can be viewed at EGGS OVER TOKYO: http://eggsovertokyo.blogspot.com

Outside the Inn by Ron Lavalette, remains one of my favourite poems. We published it at Every Day Poets, on Christmas Day 2008 and included it in our first anthology. I have read it every Christmas since and today I have come back to it again. Why? Because it is not just about Christmas. It is about history, art, tradition, scepticism and magic. It's about not throwing the baby out with the bathwater!

First of all the title tells us Ron is going to turn Christmas inside out and outside in: he is going to examine this tale that began long ago with a guiding star.

“There would, of course, have to be a star”

That is a great hook line. So matter of fact. We all accept that, don’t we? But why would there ‘have to be a star’? Because it’s traditional as Ron points out. Only this star is unique. It is not just a star among many in the night sky. It is a guiding star.

Now ask yourself: which of us nowadays would follow a star? We may read the occasional horoscope for fun but to believe in it is a different matter – to let it guide your life. But that is what religion is about – guiding your life. And to physically follow a star is not part of our modern mindset at all. Or is it? There's a bit of a hooha just now about the conjuntion of two planets and plenty of people reading into it all manner opf spurious meassages! But we are not ancient astronomers. We are not medieval sailors. We live in a world where stars surely are understood?

When I first read the poem, I immediately thought of my favourite part of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C S Lewis:

“In our world,” said Eustace, “a star is a huge ball of flaming gas.”

“Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is but only what it is made of.”

replies Ramandu, who is a fallen star. I have always loved the thought that mythology goes beyond our physical universe and in a way Lewis was saying that religion and science are two different ways of looking at and understanding the universe.

Ron also takes advantage here of tapping into the whole mythology of stars and of all the stories we heard as children. We didn’t literally believe all of those but they give us reference. Thay are part of who we are. This poem is challenging the complacency of our beliefs and our sense of logic.

This particular star turns its spotlight on;

“the merest shelter.”

“its wattle daubed with ordinary

midnight”

I love the way he describes the scene as painted – daubed. This is the ordinary, the humble made into a tableau, instantly recognisable by millions: recreated for two millennia in art and nativity backdrops, painted scenery, miracle plays, make-believe with carols. And in Ron’s poem the music begins as:

“sheep bells a softly ringing lullaby.”

Again that simplicity shines through here and it also reminds us of sleigh bells and those other good old myths we used to believe but discard in adulthood along with Santa Claus. On the other hand, C S Lewis didn't dismiss Santa Claus... Should we not do the same with this is a tale of a baby and of shepherds? In a way it’s a story about ordinary folk. 

All at once in stanza 4, the supernatural takes over.

“There would have to be an angel.”

There would?

“The sky, a clear intoxicant, would
open and the angel would sing”

Really? “an intoxicant” Well yes. What are these guys on? Appealing to our logic, perhaps they’d taken a wee nip of something against the chill. That would explain things. But in truth we seldom see the night sky as they used to see it. The awe. The wonder! I would love just once to see the night sky in that way.

So far Ron has challenged our belief but in the final stanza, he turns that inside out, a play on the title, and challenges our scepticism, and he does it through the medium of language used in a traditional Christmas Carol, The First Nowell, which people have been singing for two hundred years now – not two thousand. You probably know how it goes and it tells the same story:

“The first Nowell the angels did say

Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay;

In fields where they lay a keeping their sheep”

“certain poor shepherds” doesn’t mean they were certain about anything. It is an old fashioned way of saying ‘some’, or maybe even, ‘a chosen few’. Whatever the case, those shepherds were impressed enough to leave their flock and go down to see this new baby. Shepherds do not neglect their duties lightly. Sheep were their livelihood. Why would they do that? And why would they take the risk of talking about it all over the place; spreading the word? Well they’d have to be pretty certain it was real, wouldn’t they? They’re so certain they’re going to tell people about this. They are going to risk being thought mad. So maybe they were utterly convinced of the supernatural. At least of their own experience of awe.

He here he brings us full circle. And there Ron ends the poem – on the word ‘certain.’ And with that phrase;

“and be certain.”

Or to be precise

“spread the word
and be certain.”

This is a very short poem, succinct, complex in its apparent simplicity and beautifully written. As befits the topic, it is traditionally set out, making use of subtle rhymes and assonance, tapping into allusions from our collective memory, literature and song and turning Christmas inside out and back again.

I love it and will always love it because it speaks to me of what Christmas is really about – that sense of mystery. That magic. Our need to tell a story and the one thing we all long for -- the gift of certainty that the truth is not always in what is said but rather in the traditions behind what is said. It’s the structures that matter – the scaffolding of faith.

‘wattle daubed with ordinary’

Like Christmas itself, like with everything, you have to look behind the words, behind what its made of to see what this poem is. 

To me, it's simply glorious! And once more I thank Ron for allowing me to share it with you.

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 19th -- Looking up Looking out

We're looking to the skies this weekend. People have always looked to the skies. I suppose, in the past, they could actually see them! Astronomy and astrology used to be one and the same. We looked at the skies and to the skies, for information on seasons, agriculture, fishing, origins, stories, portents of doom, signs of hope. It's a natural thing to look up and to look out. I'm a huge fan of space. I love that I live in a time when we know so much about the universe. I would love to see a day when our moral stature lived up ot that knowledge. We've gone so far and we've looked back in awe at the tiny 'Blue Dot' that is our own planet, and that should teach us just how special humankind is and that we should be working together to preserve this home of ours.

But I've always found poetic inspiration in the skies too. That too is our nature; to make of things more than the sum of their parts, to paint pictures, make up stories, represent what we experience to the gaze of others. We look up and out and say: Hey -- this is what I made of that! And we look at what others have made of it and together we gain more understanding, not of the thing itself, but of our collective consciousness. This for me is what it's all about. That is the worth and purpose of art and science; and they are not separate for me. They are one and the same.

So I give you some space stuff today. One of my favourite stories that I ever wrote: Closer to the Truth, first published in Every Day Fuction in 2008. I love it because it says all I have just said above -- only better -- and because it is a tribute to all the Mental Health professionals (some of whom my husband trained) who this year are needed more than ever.

 And a series of poems written to go with NASA pictures of the day in Bewildering Stories where there's a huge archive of space stuff! Youll have to click on the links for the poems though the first poem should lead you to the rest. I've done this because the pictures need to be seen too! 

Enjoy my Armchair Observatory by just clicking on this link and then using the drop down arrow v and 'GO' to the right of each poem to get to the next. You can also follow the link to each NASA picture.

CLOSER to the TRUTH

With the caution of a hunter, Brian approached the diminutive figure standing by the dark tree-line of firs. No need to startle her. She might run for cover. He was close enough now to see her back to him, to hear her whisperings and see the soft, white vapour of her breath rise like a spirit released. She was looking up steadily into the October sky, holding her thin cardigan stretched over her fast at the neck with both hands.   Like a saint at prayer she looked. Like an angel on the grave of a child, her gaze fixed on heaven. She was little more than a child herself.

Brian stepped on a twig.

“Have you come to take me back?” she said without turning.

“Is it me you’re talking to, Mary?”

“Aye, it’s you.” She didn’t move at all–just kept staring up at the cold stars. The wildness had gone from her eyes. She seemed calm now but her face was stained with tears.

“What are you looking at, Mary?”

She pointed to the equatorial plane.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Shooting stars. The Orionids. They happen every year. And that’s Orion, Mary.” He closed a bit on her, crouched and pointed. “Those three bright stars are his belt.”

“It’s a he?”

“Yes. The Hunter. He was a bit of a womanizer, Orion–always out to impress the girls–not a bit like me…”

Mary sniffed and giggled and looked at him.

Eye contact. That was a start, he thought. “So anyway, Orion bragged he could kill any animal, thinking this would get him a wife, but all his tearing about didn’t sit well with the women and their fathers only thought he was a big-head. But he was irrepressible, Mary, and do you know what he did?” With one hand Brian gestured to the other two with him that they could retreat. “He threatened to kill every wild animal on the earth. The earth goddess wasn’t happy about that and she sent a scorpion to bite him on the foot and…”

“He killed it?”

“No. It killed him. But the gods felt sorry for the shortness of his life and put him high in the sky with his two dogs to hunt the bull forever and they put the scorpion far away from him so that it couldn’t harm him ever again and he couldn’t harm it.”
 
Mary wiped her face with a fistful of cardigan. “It’s not true,” she said.

“No. Orion is really a vast region of space covering light years and full of stars and places where stars are born and if you approached it, it would look nothing like it does from here. You would be past some bits of it before you got anywhere near the others–they’re that far apart. It would be like you were inside a giant snow storm frozen in time all around you, above and below, and different from every point of view. But to us he’s the hunter. And it’s a good story, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He stood up. She wasn’t going to run. “The way I see it, there are as many stories as there are people, Mary. Same star field, different points of view.”

“Do you think we need all those stories?”

“I don’t know, Mary. What do you think? Maybe it takes all the perspectives together to make up the truth, and the more stories we know, the closer we get to it.” He took off his white coat and slipped it over her shoulders. “Shall we go in now? And tomorrow if you like we can come out and look at Orion again and maybe you’ll tell me your story, Mary. Deal?”
 
He placed one hand on her shoulder directing her away from the woods across the frosty grass in her bare feet, towards the well-lit buildings and the warmth and safety of the ward and tomorrow.

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 18th -- Solidarity, Elves!

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

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 17th -- Chaos and Light

 Chaos and light is what it's all about, isn't it? I mean Christmas, the universe, everything!

Chaos and Light

It was snowing. Brendan turned his key in the lock. The door opened a fraction and then stuck. “What’s behind the door?” he shouted. “I can’t get in!”

“Come round the back,” came the reply. “I’ll let you in that way.”

He picked up his briefcase and went round the back.

In the kitchen, the baby was crying and Peter, three and a half, was in pole position. A box of Christmas decorations took up most of the rest of the floor.

“The baby’s crying,” Brendan said.

“Vroom, vroom.” Both car and toddler crashed into his legs.

“That hurt, Peter,” he protested, shaking the snow off his coat.

The phone rang.

“Can you get that?” asked Maria as she picked little Cyril up and patted his full nappy.

Brendan stepped over box, tinsel and toddler, and looked round in dismay at the chaos that welcomed him home. “Hello? What, this minute? Now?... No, no, you’re always welcome. See you in a minute then.” He replaced the receiver. “You’re mother’s on her way.”

This evening was turning into a nightmare. All he wanted to do was relax. Now he tripped over the box and spilt its baubles and bunting all over the kitchen floor. Baby was being changed on the table. Brendan thought the better of commenting on this as a matter of hygiene and started shoving the contents back into the box.

“Daddy, can I have a dink?” said the little one.

“What can he dink - I mean drink, Maria?”

“Juice in the fridge,” she said distractedly wafting the smell of poo away from her nose, “And could you just have a look at the chicken? No, wait. You finish this and I’ll have a look at the chicken.”

“Can’t I change first? I’m in my suit.”

“Okay. Turn the oven down to a hundred and sixty, get Peter a drink and then go and change.” Maria swept the hair out of her eyes with her wrist, wrapped the baby in a bath towel, poo and all, stepped over the box and dragged Peter along into the living room. “Get Mummy baby’s bag,” she said and Peter who knew the drill, obliged.

Brendan disappeared thankfully upstairs. He had only his shirt on when, with a sudden flash the light went out. “What the f… on earth? Maria? Maria?” He looked out onto the dark landing. It wasn’t just the bedroom light. It was all the lights. “Maria, where’s the torch?”

Maria appeared at the bottom of the stairs holding a match. “Dunno. Peter just switched the Christmas tree lights on and they’ve fused.”

“Peter did? Is he okay?”

“Yes, the fuse blew in the plug.”

“Okay, nobody move! I’m coming down.” Brendan sat on the top step and came down on his bare backside. He took the matches. “Everybody just stand where you are. There’s candles under the sink.”

The laminate felt hard on his knees as he struck a match and began to rummage. Shirt tail in the air, he managed to find a candle and light it just as an icy draft from the back door shriveled his scrotum.

“Isn’t your bell working?” said Maria’s mother brushing the snow off by the back door. “I’ve been stood out there for…Oooh!” She looked around in the candle light for something else to focus on. “Nice baubles,” she said.

Published in Short Humour