As the louche, has-been rock star Billy Mack in Love Actually reminds us, Christmas is all around us. And nowhere is it more around us than in the news. I read three sweet stories this morning, which I’m going to share. As they say (many times) in the film, If you can’t …(fill in the sickly sentimental thing you need to justify doing)… at Christmas, when can you? So, in that vein, if you can’t share sickly sentimental stories at Christmas, when can you?
The first was sent to me by PM at Every day I See A Cow (thank you):
A child of seven lost her cat, called Merry Christmas, at Halloween. She was found on Sunday. Christmas at home was just what that family needed.
I got that last line from the joke department of the Christmas Cracker factory. It needs some work. Where’s Pseu?
Our own Stockport Express helped save the day for one little girl, by running an internet appeal:
If you’ve ever had a two-year-old lose a teddy, you’ll understand how wonderful this is. If you haven’t, let me tell you about two-year-old Spud and his Ted-Ted-Teddy (that’s what he called it; I can’t believe he ever grew smart enough to get into a grammar school): Ted-Ted-Teddy went everywhere with Spud. The trouble is, toddlers are easily distracted. I can’t recall how many times we had to scour the house before bedtime, because Spud couldn’t – wouldn’t – sleep without his beloved teddy (about as big as my hand, which made him even more difficult to find), and had dropped him somewhere when playing; how many times I had to re-trace my steps when we had been out because Spud had seen a squirrel or a dog or a leaf and dropped Ted-Ted-Teddy in his enthusiasm to explore the exciting new world of vicious, smelly animals and mulch.
I hated that thing.
My sister-in-law had a moment of genius – she bought him another Ted-Ted-Teddy. She had bestowed the first one upon him, so she thought it was the least she could do. Problem solved.
Problem doubled. Spud now dropped two Ted-Ted-Teddies that had to be found. I am ashamed to admit that it is entirely possible that for a while during my youngest son’s childhood, I hated my lovely sister-in-law.
The good news is, we always found him/them. Usually, it was Tory Boy who found him/them. Go Tory Boy!
A thought has just occurred to me: Tory Boy was always rewarded with love, praise and attention…could it have been Tory Boy, the foul fiend, who ‘lost’ him…?
Hmm. Good job it’s Christmas, or it would be, Go, Tory Boy.
The third story is a tale of greed and post office inefficiency:
Two Irish children wrote their Christmas letter in 1911 and sent it up the chimney to Father Christmas; it never arrived. It was found this year. Good thing, I say; you should see how much the greedy little beggars wanted:
“I want a baby doll and a waterproof with a hood and a pair of gloves and a toffee apple and a gold penny and a silver sixpence and a long toffee.”
The news here is that we are in for a mild Christmas. No snow. I’m not sorry. It looks pretty until you’re lying on your back in it, having slipped on an icy patch and been concussed when your head hit a large, frozen dog turd.
Besides, I look like I’m having my own little snow party closer to home: I noticed this morning that the skin around my nose has cracked and flaked from the worst cold I’ve ever had, leaving me looking like a cocaine addict who can only get enough by burying my face in a bowl of the stuff.
No pictures. It’s not Christmas.