Every year on the Feast of Saint Santa Claus, I declare a truce with all the assorted mountebanks, poltroons, scoundrels, goose-milkers and heron-stranglers who beset the average day in the life of a wandering websitey person.
Tonight, tomorrow and possibly the day after, I will not argue with them. I will not confront them, disagree with them or call them idiots — not even in a low voice, audible only to myself.
Instead, I’ll just mentally play football with them in No-Man’s Land, secure in the certain knowledge that it won’t be long before we resume hostilities for another year.
Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht?
I don’t think so.
Besides, it’s a small enough sacrifice compared to that of Saint Santa Claus, who died on the cross to save the toy industry.
For now, on this Christmas Eve, as the plum pudding bubbles, the ham wafts its smoky goodness through the house, and a Japanese oven-ready turkey stands ready to tear out all its feathers, leap in the oven and slit its own throat, I wish you and yours all the best.
Here’s to your lifelong health and happiness.
Bod mór agus Bás in Éireann, as my rock-hopping friend is inclined to say.