I’m everyone’s favourite person at Christmas.
I’m the popular teacher in the canteen, who intercepts children en route to the bin with the remains of their Christmas dinner and shrieks, ‘My dog will eat that!’
I’m the guest who arrives to a friend’s festive party, with their offerings packed into a gift bag so old that the arse falls out of it when I emerge from the car and watch the cans of craft beer go rolling down their driveway and the mince pies crumble as they hit the deck. THEN, when I go to put the offending bag in their blue bin, I deliver a mini lecture on why soft plastics (including bubble wrap) don’t belong with all the rest of the recycling items. It remains to see whether I’ll be invited back. It was my first visit.
You want to see me, hovering around the kitchen island, saying ‘do you know that you use that foil again to cover left over vegetables or even line your grill? Mind if I take it home? We go through a LOT of bacon this time of year.’ People often take a nod and smile approach, as they would a doddery relative.
When it comes to wrapping presents I’m up to my usual antics, digging out paper from yesteryear and leafing through old Guardian papers for decorative pictures. I purchase one roll of festive wrap a year from Oxfam for bigger items. My loved ones tell me they feel like the anointed one when they detect the lack of wrinkles and realise they have been given virgin paper. Don’t worry I say, you’ll see it again next year, so don’t get used to it.
Needless to say, I am not a fan of the novelty gift, aka plastic shite that one appreciates for all of seven minutes in the spirit of frivolity, and wonders how long they can respectfully wait before it goes in the bin. Makes me all a-quiver, that sort of thing.
Talking about getting me going in a different sense is thinking how to use all the waste products- all those salvaged Amazon boxes, vegetable scrapings and leftover cards. LSB wonders if he’d see a bit more action if he took a job with Bryson House, or even just got hold of one of their uniforms for an evening.
A good pal has just put six raised beds into her garden. We stood surveying her husband’s handiwork from her warm living room. She was getting excited about the plants she would be filling them with. I on the other hand, was becoming increasingly animated, telling her to chuck in all her green waste and cardboard so she wouldn’t need as much compost. ‘Donkey manure!’ I said. ‘Need any? ‘I can source some.’ Another guest politely left in search of prosecco at this point. Can’t say I blame her.
When I start talking about well-rotted equine shit it’s probably my cue to sign off. May I wish you all the merriest of Christmases, and urge you to take your joy wherever you find it. If you’re looking for me you might find me down Ormeau Recycling Centre, with a beatific smile on my face.
