Bought a pack of six mince pies today. You know it's Christmas when mince pies are being sold. Love them or hate them, they just say 'Christmas is coming' don't they.
The expiry date on these lovely pies is 20th October. That's 20th October this year. Over two months before Christmas actually starts.
What in the name of arse is going on?
Anyway, I was going to moan about how when I was a lad, you only ate Mince Pies actually at Christmas, and how the shops are already full of a whole wealth of Christmas goods (big tins of Quality Street - yes I bought one, whole displays dedicated to baubles, tat and tins of biscuits - I didn't buy any of them, yet,) but, as I say, in what is probably my longest ever sentence, I'm not going to moan about it: everyone does.
Instead, I'll sound off about what must be the real message of Christmas, and how it's got lost in all the glitter-infested fibre-opticed trees, the lure of the money-grabbing supermarkets and the constant repeats of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. That's not what Christmas is all about is it? I truly believe I have found the real meaning of Christmas.
Pigs in blankets.
Little dozy sausages wrapped up in cozy bacon blankets. It's what the day was invented for, a celebration of all things porcine. So simple yet so lovely, these little fellows hang around all year waiting to be devoured (a bit like turkeys) yet they're everyone's favourites. Unlike turkey, you're not subjected to over-kill in a five day period after the huge turkey you've bought has to last a week in various disguises (turkey curry, turkey salad, turkey and chips, turkey surprise.) You usually only get one pig in blanket at Christmas and I'm sure most people would agree, there's never any wasted.
So that's it. Moderation. To keep Christmas special, everything needs to be in moderation and not have a five month build up.
I'm still writing, nearly ten thousand words done last week, so I'm on course for the deadline. It's the editing that scares me a bit.
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