Santa’s boots


It’s so very hot and the fat man in the red suit is still wearing a woolly suit, a woollier fur lined hat, a giant beard and a pair of wellies. Or in the case of the one I saw in the shopping centre last week, it’s steel toe capped paramilitary boots.

...chestnuts roastin...
...chestnuts roastin...
See for me, the blow in Scot, it doesnae really feel like Christmas unless there’s only six hours of daylight, horizontal rain lashin off ye and grey slush piled along the side of the road. Mind you ye never look at the ground because the bright decorations are shimmering against the dark sky and everybody’s full of cheer or beer or mulled wine and whisky.

My billy lids were born here and don’t care if it’s 35 degrees and Santa has a sweat rash. They’re so high with excitement we have to tie string to their toes to stop them drifting away in their sleep.

The youngest wants a lipstick, a Wiggles lipstick. Even after explaining the Wiggles gender and the slim possibility of said lipstick even existing, she was insistent. it’s all she wants though. Her elder sister wants a really good colouring in book. Honestly. Two kids whose cumulative wish list for christmas is worth about six bucks. Santa would have to be happy with the size of bag he’s bringing to our house.

I hope, like the wee yins, you’ve all been good. I hope ye get to yer beds early on Thursday night and I hope you and yours have a smashin christmas. Remember its no just aboot the baby jesus. It’s about getting really nice presents and doing stuff ye don’t really want to. Enjoy yerself and I’ll see ye on the otherside of the maddest weekend of the year.

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