Drink and the Football Helmet

Jim Doc: Singstar!

Santa Claus

HE comes in the night! He comes in the night!
He softly, silently comes;
While the little brown heads on the pillows so white
Are dreaming of bugles and drums.

He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam,
While the white flakes around him whirl;
Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home
Of each good little boy and girl.

His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide;
It will carry a host of things,
While dozens of drums hang over the side,
With the sticks sticking under the strings.

And yet not the sound of a drum is heard,
Not a bugle blast is blown,
As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird,
And drops to the hearth like a stone.

The little red stockings he silently fills
Till the stockings will hold no more;
The bright little sleds for the great snow hills
Are quickly set down on the floor.

Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird,
And glides to his seat in the sleigh;
Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard
As he noiselessly gallops away.

He rides to the East, and he rides to the West,
Of his goodies he touches not one;
He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast
When the dear little folks are done.

Old Santa Claus doeth all he can,
This beautiful mission is his;
Then, children, be good to the little old man
When you find who the little man is.

One my childhood Christmas traditions until I was perhaps eight or nine years old was that my mum would read the above poem to me on Christmas Eve when I went to bed. On the last year, before I decided I should read the poem myself, the last line of the poem peeked my then virgining perception. When you find who the little man is. I asked my mother what this line meant and it was in her reply, a smile with eyebrows raised and fained profession that she did not know the meaning, that the truth was made clear to me.

I said nothing at the time, I had for several years believed that I did indeed look out of my window one late Christmas Eve and see a blur in the distance of reindeer dancing across the sky with sleigh following at their hinds. Such wonderful delusions have no doubt fought off the disappointing truth in many children over the years, but regrettably, I was quite a sober sided child and logic slowly chipped away at fantasy and I was left with one sure and sad reality; There is no Santa Claus.

And so I have believed (or not, as the case may be) until now.

Now you're getting worried about me, I can tell, but I swear to you that Father Christmas is a real. What I never realised and have never took the time to analyse is something a child cannot know. For all these years I never really understood that last line - When you find who the little man is. Of course I know that it was our parents wrapping those gifts and placing them under the tree while we slept, but don't you see? They are Santa Claus. It's so much bigger than an anonymous bearded man – it is their love for you. Quantified as best they can and wrapped in bright colours, brought to you by a magical being clothed in red – it is their love for you. Santa Claus is a feeling. It is the warmth you feel by giving to others and bringing them joy.

For Children Santa Claus is essential. When you learn where the presents come from you may begin to feel guilty about what is spent on; you realise the price of your joy. Children must never know this. It must be magical for them. They must believe, for as long as their development will allow, in the magic of Christmas, the magic of Santa Claus.

My realisation about Old St. Nick came to me on a sleepless night like tonight last Monday. That was the night that that my best friend and his fiancée became both parents and, of course Santa Claus, to their daughter Zoe. She could not ask for a greater gift than her parents.

Merry Christmas to the new, the old and the in-between, I hope Santa is good to you all this year.

Couch-Face

I slept on the couch last night. My sleeping arrangements were not born out of cross words of hurt feelings but, rather ironically, my increasing inability to sleep. I went to bed late, I know I shouldn't but the alternative is to go to bed early, toss and turn (therefore disturbing Michelle's sleep) and then get up, so I went to bed late. When I got there I found Michelle sprawled in the centre of the bed with a cat flanking each side of her. Normally, of course, I would move one of the cats, except that looking at the three of them, cuddled up and comfortable and knowing the inevitable disruption I would bring to each of them I opted to leave my little family in peace.

I slept for six hours and have been up and awake for four and a quarter hours yet, much to my disbelief, my face is still ingrained with vertical lines down my right side. Couch-face; is the term for my appearance. The short-term affliction is in fact a common occurrence amongst nap takers, disgruntled spouses and other such sofa snoozers, however the temporary disfigurement, on most, only lasts for roughly thirty minutes! Here I am on nearing the end of my ninth cycle of that time frame and the markings, though admittedly not as prominent, are still plainly visible!

It's not a great worry I admit, but still, I've been out and about! The problem could be circulatory; should the blood flow not pump out such ingraining of the body? I have to admit though I 'm kind of curious as to what other shapes my play-dough like mug can retain… Perhaps when you see me next I'll have the faint outline of a duck or a star or some other cookie cutter image on my cheek.

'Till then.

THIS WEEK
I Watched: - Lady in the Water, I Want Someone to Eat Cheese With and Infamous.
I Read: - The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson.
I listened to:- N/A

Annie

He sits by the bed and is surprised to see the old woman look at him with a clarity that defies the morphine pumped into her veins. Their eyes meet only for seconds before her eyes close again and she is gone. This is how my father's week began and how my grandmother's life ended.

Annie was my Grandmother, my Nanny. After my Papa, Jimmy, died in December Annie's mind became increasingly confused. I believe that she could simply not accept his passing so instead retreated her thoughts to earlier years and events imagined. Despite her confusion in the end Annie still knew her mind in as much as that she knew what she wanted, a strong will to compensate for her failing mind. Her wit never suffered much either, and if I think about her now I think about how she made me laugh.

Annie, like Jimmy, was one of life's great characters. Her generation has such a rich history due to circumstances of the era that in all likelihood characters such as herself will never be seen by this world again. Her mother died when she was fourteen making her tough before she should have been. When war broke out she worked in a munitions factory and drove a steam truck. I cannot imagine what her life must have been like in those years. It's hard to visualise my wee Nanny at the wheel of that big truck.

She once told me a story of walking home from her work with her friend one day when a man grabbed the two of them, flung them over a wall and lay on top of them. I was shocked; believing that she was telling me that his man was attacking her! "no," she said at the time "the planes were bombing us and he was protecting us from the rubble." An unimaginable time to be alive I think you will agree.

I'll finish off now with the short passage I wrote for Annie's order of service. Her passing is a sad occasion but I the end I think those that knew her knew that without Jimmy this world was too lonely a place for her to stay.

Together Again

nnie was a loving mother, grandmother and great grandmother, however, her greatest love was undeniably Jimmy. Some of the last words Annie spoke were to say that Jimmy was "keeping a place" for her and we know that she is now in that place, happy to be together again and for all time.

Annie Ambrose

1923—2008