It seems rather fortuitous that we have a holiday at the end of the year.
I mean, who sat around a table however many years ago and decided that holidays like Christmas should be at the end of the year. And who decided one half of the world could freeze to death on their holidays, and the other half burn?
At the end of a long year at that, you know, 52 weeks, 12 months, 365 days, where even when some of us get a weekend off once in a blue moon, it still seems like we’re working 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year.
So, who decided a week would have seven days, a year would have 12 months, and while we’re at it, who decided to give each month a different name? And who named names?
Was it Father Time. As children, we all learn about father time, or has political correctness stepped in and we now call ‘father time’, ‘person time’.
Who do we blame for this mess, we have to blame someone. It’s not our fault. If it were up to me I’d have Christmas in September when there’s more temperate weather in both halves of the world.
And who decided that Christmas should be attached to Winter and not Summer?
It’s like the whole mess was designed by a group of academics majoring in philosophy sitting in a back room and fed Coca Cola and Pizzas until they came up with an answer, which was probably to send it all to a parliamentary committee made up from candidates from Bellevue Asylum.
The same people, by the way, who are responsible for coordinating traffic lights.
And then there’s that other mystery I’ve never quite understood.
If you work for the FBI your first name suddenly becomes ‘Agent’. Everyone gets that name change whether you like it or not.
Which is much the same as all Russians once upon a time calling each other ‘comrade’. Beats the hell, I suppose, out of remembering peoples first names, especially in Russia where, to us, they’re unpronounceable.
You can tell I haven’t got over last Chrismas.
Nor missing out, again, to COVID restrictions.
Perhas things will be better next Christmas.