OK. I admit it. I don’t really know what the 7 reasons are. Although I would have to say, instinctively, that the idea has merit. I just put the photo there to get your attention.

Pathetic, really.

Because this is an attempt to post on a more than semi-regular basis. And is an attempt, I suppose, to share. But it is not a very good one because, once again I have lifted a passing comment that I made to someone else’s post and have dressed it up as an actual post of my own.

I was touched by Stoner’s description of sharing her bed with a sibling and it seemed to me that there is something very intimate and trusting about the idea. We are, as I suggested to her, never more open and vulnerable than when we are asleep.

That my own thoughts drift into a slightly more carnal direction is certainly not intended to detract from the sweet innocence of her own.

Though lonely nights

I’ve known a few

I shared last night

with someone new

We shared the pillow

shared our breath

We shared the moment.

Little death.

We lay together

side by side

We share what we

no longer hide

I don’t post a lot of stuff.

You may have noticed (or not noticed – it’s the same thing really).

I am a voyeur. I look at other people’s posts – normally with a mixture of admiration and envy. Every now and again I will add a comment … something trite … with origins in the low moral ground that I inhabit. These comments are not well thought out – they are instant reactions. They often, I suspect, miss the mark.

I probably send people to sleep.

Every now and then, though, something pops out that, I think, sort of works.

I read an haiku from Cyranny this morning and I replied with two that lived together. I thought it sort of worked.

And so I repeat it here. Just so I can say that I posted something. Just to tick the box.

May your dreams escape
The captivity of sleep
To dance in the light

May your memories
Return at dusk to follow
You into the night

Sleep well, everybody.

The Onion

LONDON—Noting that making a difference would cost less than a single cup of coffee, the Against Malaria Foundation released an advertising campaign Friday stressing that even one dollar could help a needy child, but you’d have to be a complete fucking dick to give that little. “For just one dollar out of your paycheck, you could help make sure no child has to experience this horrible disease, although what kind of a callous prick would you be to send us one measly buck?” said the commercial’s voiceover, explaining that any contribution was appreciated in this season of giving, but, that you would need to be a real heartless fuck of a Scrooge to look at how fortunate you are this Christmas and how little these children have and decide one-hundred pennies was the most you could possibly spare. “Every cent counts, of course. Then again—Seriously, a dollar? A single fucking dollar? You’re a despicable son of a bitch. What kind of goddamn monster would think that was sufficient?” The advertisement also stressed that for just $3,742 you could help these disadvantaged children and still look yourself in the mirror the next day.

My very good friends,

I confess to you all that I tend to get a bit of the bar humbugs about me around this time of year.

I don’t really understand why that is. As a child I loved Christmas. I still treasure memories of Christmas past that I shared with cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents and brothers and sisters and a few other people who seemed to have some sort of biological connection to me that I never rally got to the bottom of.

I have vivid memories of marvellous presents. Most of them had little monetary value but carried with them instead the message that somebody cared, that somebody knew what fascinated me – that someone understood me.

And I have certainly had, during my time on this planet, far more evidence to support the existence of Santa Claus than I have had supporting the existence of Jesus Christ. The idea of either is preposterous, of course, but, in terms of delivery of promise (and this may be a very personal experience) I have found Santa the more reliable of the two.

But I digress.

The one ‘Christmas Message’ that really appeals to me has something to to with ‘goodwill to all men’. It is a rather old sentiment and I don’t think we should take it too literally. The original author did not want, I am sure, to exclude women as beneficiaries. It was just the way they said things back then. It doesn’t really mean ‘all men’ – it means ‘all people’.

The most important word in that old phrase, anyway, as far as I am concerned, is ‘all’. The word ‘all’, for those of you without easy access to a dictionary, means ‘all’. And so ‘All people’ means ‘all’ people.

It doesn’t mean people you are related to, it doesn’t mean people who are nice to you, or people you might want to sleep with, it doesn’t mean people who like the same God as you, it doesn’t mean people who’s skin colour matches yours or people who support your football team.

It means ‘all’ people.

You might not really like some of these people. Because some of them are, let’s face it, absolute fuckwits. You wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire.

And I am not suggesting that you should invite, in for a drink this Christmas Eve, the weird guy who stands by the telephone box on the park directly across from your apartment every night wearing a soiled grey overcoat and running shoes and stares at you. That would be silly.

But might it not be nice, just for a couple of days this time of year, to have only good thoughts of others? Just for 48 hours be totally non-judgemental? It’s not as easy as it sounds, I grant you. Especially when no-one else seems to be doing it. And even the person sitting directly across from you at Christmas lunch (your sister, probably) insists on loudly describing some drunken social indiscretion that you might have committed twenty years ago.

But I urge you to try anyway.

I won’t be. I’ve given up.

Bar Humbug.