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Call me a cynical Grinch, but I’d much rather hole-up on Mount Crumpit than contend with residents of Whoville over the holidays. You can imagine my horror as December starts spreading its merry-making-mayhem of Joy to the World in all its red and green glory. There’s no escaping the supermarket song and dance. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking the true meaning of a white Christmas (down south it’s a whole different kettle of turkey). It’s the thought of conforming to the ethereal idealism of peace and goodwill to all mankind when millions are plagued by starvation, loneliness, and desperation in a time of ceremonial celebration. Not to mention forcing cheerful chatter with people I’d much prefer to celebrate without. You know the type ‘So what did Santa Claus bring you? Something you wanted?’ Hm, if only you could read my mind…No, I didn’t fucking get the blue wooden beach house in Hermanus (apparently my stocking’s too small) but hey, I have my health! Nope, all I got was another broken bank balance – one that long outlasts the hype of 24-hour jolliment.

This being the case, why then do I feel like I should belong to Santa’s Sorority when actually I’m a grave Grinchian soul who rejects the deluge of commercial martyrdom? Well, it could be due to ghosts from Christmas past; every answered Santa letter, thoughtless gift, forced festivity, absent friend or extra pound. Or it could just be that the notions of a traditional Christmas of the imported kind are turned upside down in my southern hemisphere heart, along with the belief in ask and ye shall receive, do unto others and love the neighbour. Not to mention that I’ve recently put my five-year-old to bed with How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

‘Bah, humbug!’ is all I have to say for all this (quite a suitable Scroogie catchphrase). I’ve had enough. It’s hardly a time filled with happy memories. If I’m forced into cheerful generosity, then I’d prefer to do it on a day I choose, surrounded by selected friends, serving an inspired array of gourmet fare to suit the weather, while I raise glass to Even Haezer. No last-minute soap-on-a-rope gifts needed!

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