Leaves have remained fixed to trees like summer-lovin’ larvae had glued them in place with squirty stuff from their backsides, and all shades of green have hung on to their greeniness despite the mix n’ match yellow and brown allure of every womens’ fashion catalogue from Next to Clad-a-Trollop.
But now, Winter’s gloves are off.
Hmm, not sure here.
All I know is, the Autumn burlesque is over, and Winter has cast aside its feather, the better to goose our eyeballs with its bleak and barren genitals.
It makes sense for this to happen right now (uhm, yeah, Whirl — like you have a choice).
The run-up to Christmas wouldn’t be the same without a little bleakness. Or rawness. Or darkness. Or misery.
It’s not bad right now compared to (say) 2009 or (say again) 1980, but 24 days from now, when the bleakness and rawness and darkness and misery has really set in (along with even cheesier adverts and the zillion bugle fanfare for the New Year sales), I’ll be more than ready for my roaring fire, my port and Stilton, and my inflatable Noddy Holder.
This year, I plan to manifest as the Anti-Scrooge.