The doors of an advent calendar all hanging off their cardboard hinges; a ravaged goose carcass is stuck to a shallow pool of solid gravy; the remains of a sherry trifle congeals in its bowl; shards of ripped wrapping paper flutters in the cold draft from a leaky window and sharp pine needles find their way into every nook and cranny; somewhere in the snug, beside the black embers of a dying fire, drowsy gluttons belch into the night. Charles Dickens's Christmas Village has become a ghost town and a cracked silver bauble, fallen from the Tannenbaum, rolls across the floor like a glittery tumbleweed. Meanwhile, the lowly cattle shed of a table-top nativity scene collapses in a seismic earthquake caused by the family dog scavenging half-eaten mince pies. Santa Claus has left the building. Ho ho ho.
Now there is a brief festive intermission, vague days where nobody knows what to do while waiting for New Year's Eve, except perhaps to over sleep in preparation for staying up past the midnight hour. Then finally New Year's Day itself, of course, not only the first day of the year but also the most equivocal day of the year: twenty-four idle hours spent brooding about what 2025 will bring. Janus no longer stares forward and backward but clandestinely glances from side to side like a mischievous child engaged in some tomfoolery he knows is wrong, a practical joke such as giving you an electric shock handshake or setting off a stink bomb in your office. I guess we can only hope his plans are so innocuous. Happy Holidays, nonetheless, from my underground bunker to yours.
