Somebody I know very well went shopping and hung some kid’s clothes on the handle of the trolley, went through the checkout and came out to the van without paying for them. The right thing to do would be to go straight back into the shop and pay for them. My way of thinking - Christmas had come early.
But you don’t have to tell me about Christmas. Noddy Holder has been following me most of my life. You know that Slade song radio stations love and supermarkets binge on, the one that ends up in faux snow and Noddy growling ‘Its Christmasssssssssssssssssss.’
Fuck off back to Noddy-land you want to shout, but you can’t because you’re sitting in the van, engine idling, and you’d look a bit stupid.
In my day we were more sensible. There was rationing. Our teacher gave us enough cardboard to make a card and as many crayons as we wanted to chew, but it was one dab of glue, one sprinkle of glitter and make-do. Mum was always pleased, ecstatic with our efforts. Dad would put on a face like a half-penny chew at the very mention of cards or Christmas cheer and retreat to his room until February or March. Bah-humbug. I started off sweet and I’ve went all sour. Guess which one I take after?
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