In the distance I become vaguely aware of the first few notes of a tune emanating from somewhere outside, possibly from an approaching car stereo or a time-displaced 1980's kid's oversized Sony boom box. My ears prick up as I hear actual sleigh bells though, followed by the faint first whisper of Roy Wood's dulcet tones as Wizzard's "I Wish It Could Be Christmas" gradually bleeds into existence.
The music gets incrementally louder and eventually through parted curtains I spy a flatbed truck, once white as the driven snow but now filthy, and minus any festive decoration whatsoever. On the back, balanced as precariously as Boris Johnson's job security, stands a haggard, wizened old Santa; more closely resembling something out of a Brother's Grimm fairy-tale than the jolly old soul from the Coke advert.
Where there should be plump, rosy-red cheeks instead sits the gaunt, sallow face of a man clearly lacking the dimensions traditionally associated with the role of St Nick, the oversized red suit hanging off his thin frame in thick folds like the skin of a recent gastric bypass recipient. As his 'sleigh' navigates the empty street, a few bell-ringing acolytes (not dressed as Elves, 'Little Helpers', or anything Christmassy whatsoever for that matter) trail close behind the decidedly un-jolly one, while he waves maniacally to absolutely nobody at all.
A knock at the door makes me jump and sends the dog into a snarling, teeth-gnashing frenzy, as if he knows something I don't. I glance back to the window to see two of Santa's beady-eyed little demons staring straight at me through the glass, clutching what appear to be tinsel-lined charity collection buckets and peering inward in an attempt to make out my bemused and slightly terrified features, illuminated only by the pale glow from the laptop.
"Do they want money?" I wonder... "Perhaps a blood sacrifice? Maybe just my company in the spirit of Yuletide and community?" I'm too scarred to find out, so I do what any reasonable member of modern society would have done in this situation, indeed, what any of you would have done: I reach over and momentarily flick on the big light, bathing us all a bright white, almost Holy glow and silently mouth the words "FUCK OFF", before getting up to close the curtains.
I wish it could be Christmas every day.
