’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
there was so much to do that I started to grouse.
My day was spent
as a blue‑arsed fly.
Why had I left it so late
to shop, and clean,
and wrap, and chop,
and cook?
I forgot half the items
on the shopping list
(is cranberry sauce really necessary?)
and hadn’t got a turkey
for reasons unclear.
The panic set in at 4 p.m.
when Sainsbury’s, Tesco
and Waitrose
had all sold out.
Thank God for Aldi.
I sprinted there
in a hysterical frenzy
to find, on the shelf,
like some poultry holy grail,
one solitary
half‑price
organic bronze turkey,
slightly battered
but probably fine once it’s drowned in gravy.
Too tired to think about dinner tonight,
so it was Quality Street for starters
and Celebrations for mains.
The cat took offence
at the Christmas tree,
scattering decorations
in feline judgment.
Still got presents to wrap.
Still got potatoes to peel.
Still have the faint hope
that I might do something useful
before midnight.
But I’m on my third mulled wine,
watching The Good Life
Christmas special from 1977,
which is now
the evening’s main event
and frankly the most organised thing
in the house.
There is, technically,
quite a lot left to do.
And who is going to do it,
if not me?
Possibly Future Me,
who, at this rate,
is already drafting
a strongly worded complaint
to Present Me
about the overall
project management
of Christmas Eve.
BARBED WORDS 