So this is Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas...

‘Twas’? Really? And they say grammar nowadays is bad...

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, in your living room, the night before Christmas. Santa Claus, sitting in your favourite chair. You know, the faded green one you bought when you first moved out of your mum’s (aged twenty-three...); the one you had your first spliff in (check out the hot-rock burns); the one you were sitting in when you got into the top 1000 on the guitar hero leaderboards, for Ziggy Stardust, second proudest moment of your life; the one you had sex with your wife’s younger (slimmer) sister on while they were both so drunk on absinthe (and passed out)... proudest moment of your life, you sad fuck.

So Santa Claus, as I said, sitting in your favourite chair. Red and white suit, fuzzy trim, bushy white beard, shit-eating grin on his face. And your wife? On her knees, on the floor, slumped against the chair (your favourite chair). It’s been a tiring night for her, all that screaming. But that’s what’s great about this place, remember, the space, you never have to hear your neighbours. They never have to hear you either, or your wife, no matter how loud she was.

And your wife’s face? Where? Well... that would be telling. You don’t get that last look, that last look is mine, to keep, forever.

You can keep the chair though.

You’ll never get that stain out, but hey, all those memories...