I never knew the old Christmas before the pandemic with its choral groups, nativity plays, and midnight masses. July the Fourth suited me better. I really got to know Christmas in the modern period of Coronavirus. We'd shut down anything if people had a slight cough and the sanctimonious outrage to make people feel guilty about celebrating. Of course, a situation like that does tempt amateurs but they can't stay the course like a real killjoy.
Now our company Christmas party. It's divided into four zones, you know, each occupied by a power: the mask-wearers; the social distancers; the compulsive hand sanitizers; and the fourth booster shot receivers. But the table where the drinks are is policed by everybody. Wonderful! What a hope they have. All paranoid about a different way of picking up the virus.
Good fellows on the whole, do their best you know. The Christmas party really isn't anymore depressing than any other event. Spirit's gone a bit. Oh, I was going to tell you, wait, I was going to tell you about Holly Martins, here doing an internship. Got invited to the Christmas party to help with a seasonal tradition.
The tradition is Claus. Santa Claus. Now Martins was an unpaid intern and Claus had offered him some sort, I don't know, some sort of paying gig. Anyway, there he was, poor chap. Merry as an elf with a mug of eggnog and without a positive Covid test ...
(I would add "apologies to Graham Greene" but he's never apologized to me for his novels)
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