The Christmas Post

I'm sitting here trying to think of something profound and seasonally appropriate to write. Nothing is coming to mind. Friends, goodwill, stuff like that there. Mostly what I'm contemplating today is why America doesn't have a fancy name for the day after Christmas. England has Boxing Day, which sounds like a fairly accurate reaction to the day you were just forced to spend in seclusion with your family. Ireland has St. Stephen's Day, which is also celebrated under the same name in Italy, Spain, Croatia and the Czech Republic. Most interestingly, Wales has something that used to involve the beating of late risers and female servants with holly branches. Sadly, this charming custom was halted in the 19th century. I can't imagine why.

No, we Americans are content with the simple and direct 'December 26.' I suppose I am overlooking the first day of Kwanzaa, but I still arch a skeptical eyebrow at that particular holiday. While completely un-p.c. of me, I suspect it was the work of the greeting card companies to cash in on the underdeveloped African American community.

I spent the better part of the day watching Jeeves and Wooster dvds in my room and making a not entirely unconscious effort to avoid my Belorussian flatmate and his two-week guest. The conversation isn't exactly scintillating and I so often walk in on them frying all manner of things in the kitchen. The scent can be quite pungent.

However, don't shed a tear for me...alone on Christmas Day and all. I accompanied the wickedly funny Shane on a last minute shopping spree into the city yesterday. He was almost unable to purchase his dear mother loads of pink cardigans at Benetton owing to his credit cards being maxed out. After two of his cards were declined, I instructed him in the fine art of splitting the total between many cards, thereby avoiding one walloping sum on a single bit of plastic. It worked like a charm and he is, no doubt, eternally grateful, at least until the bills work their way round to his address.

After Shane's departure for the train station, I then legged it around the city for a bit, took in the Christmas-y sites and finally strapped on the feed bag at a Spanish restaurant that is apparently godless and sees no reason to shut its doors to the hungry simply because a fat man in a gaudy suit takes to the skies.

Gifts were opened this morning. I shall never lack for olive oil or delicately painted teacups...I can ask for no more.