November wheezes to its inevitable end, the fizz and sparkle of fireworks long gone, and exits the calendar stage left, like a forgotten repertory actor about to be out-performed and outshone by a knight of the twenty-first century realm, shining like Sirius on a new month’s opening night.December. Twenty-four days of high hopes, high jinks and high blood pressure, pagan hijackings, choirs of angels and quires of wishlists, leading us into more temptation and the day of puddings, presents and pressure cookers before the panto, the penance and the punishment of Auld Lang Syne. A time to ponder, a mixed bag of miscellany to mull.
Like what was the recently departed Norman Mailer thinking about when he wrote the passage that this week won him the Bad Sex Award by the Literary Review?
Like did anyone tell the erstwhile and reconvened Ginger, Baby, Sporty and Scary that the fifth of their number had evidently been kidnapped and replaced by a Bratz action figure?
Like how strange is the world when an anthropomorphically-named teddy bear is the cause of a diplomatic row and prison sentence, when a publisher is threatened with legal action for publishing a work widely renowned as both important and insightful, when a dog collar sports a price tag of a cool £500,000?
Like how is Santa ever going to get a 1098S and a bag of Jeffery-West goodies down my slim, hat-wearing chimney?
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