On Advent Sunday

I mutter an ancient curse
at the considerable and the wasteful
expense
at the queuing, the crowds,
the carol elevator music

the choosing and the buying of disposable seasonal tat
plastic bags engorged with ambivalent gifts

the politically correct ‘holiday’ greetings I should write, address, stamp and post
but never get round to

not until the last minute

when I panic
send it all First Class

I am sent beside-the-point cards decorated with Santas, reindeer, snowflakes
and loud-mouthed Round Robins
disguised as peacocks
bragging, screaming for attention

I am under an obligation
to erect and then decorate
the annual memorial to Prince Albert
tree

to acquire, prepare, and then cook
a surfeit of extravagant, luxury
food

Oh to travel, like Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar from the East
to be saved from the entertainment

Our noble guests
unwanted and unasked for
relatives, visitors and erstwhile friends

who pull crackers, don paper hats,
who pose for and snap
the embarrassing
and not all funny
pissed-as-a-newt photos

who insist that they stand
for the Queen’s Speech
who demand games
last year’s hits
all-day telly

They are noisy as a football team celebrating a nil-nil draw
who will drink to
what was
what will be
but never to what
is

I can guarantee tears
before bedtime

So much for the putting on the glitz of it
the paste jewellery shine of it
the superfluous and the clutter of it
the abundant mess of it
the pressure and the soon to be tired of it

Finally
I thank God for it
New Year’s Day

the seventh day of Christmas

© Sophia Roberts
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