A Writer’s Christmas

I’m an author and consequently an enforced recluse most of the time. Writing for me is best done tucked away somewhere quiet where I can’t blame distractions and where I can give my full attention to procrastination, Facebook, Twitter, blogs and that kind of thing. I do proper writing occasionally too, sometimes.

But if I worked for Snodgrass and Sons or Bargain Ballcocks or GlobalMegaCorp I wouldn’t be alone right now. I’d be winding down for Christmas with colleagues and possibly enjoying some of those festive (ghastly word) larks that people in offices ‘enjoy’. That’s not fair. Why should I miss out just because I’m a freelance, self-employed, sole-trader lonely git?

So this year I am giving it the full Pre-Christmas Celebration Thing.

First, I gave myself a tacky charity Christmas card – you know, the one that features a Caucasian Mary and donates 0.07p to Save the Pigeon.

Not wanting to appear Scrooge-like (even though he’s the best Christmas character by far) I decided to award myself a seasonal bonus. I thought long and hard about this and in the end plumped for an extra hob-nob with my coffee. It seemed only fair considering the hard graft I’d put in looking at my Amazon sales rank over the last month.

I made the study where I work look suitably garish with purple laser tinsel and an infaltable Santa that blew off next door’s chimney then I hung up some plastic miseltoe and made suggestive remarks to anyone of the opposite sex who passed (ie my wife, who told me to grow up).

My Secret Santa scheme was a moderate success. I received some Morrison’s SupaSaver mints and a blue ink cartridge.

This left the main event: the Christmas party. I thought about hiring a club or bringing in a balloon-bending magician but in the end concluded that the office shindig should be in the office. Preparation was extensive: there would be nuts, booze and two kinds of sandwiches. Everyone would be invited. And I’m pleased to say that the whole staff turned out. It was crazy: poppers were going off; the music was too loud to talk over (quelle relief) and one person, who shall remained nameless, stood on a desk and made a right berk of himself. Honestly, you don’t want to know the details.

What an afternoon! Never to be repeated, I can tell you… Merry Christmas.

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