So That Was Christmas

As we are all aware from copious adverts, blanket publicity and saccharine marketing campaigns from multinational corporations intent only on making us better people, christmas is a time for giving. There is nothing more noble and appreciated than giving, it would appear. I'm not totally sure about that because I gave someone a cold sore once and they were less than amused.

It's not just individuals who can give at christmas, but organisations as well. For instance, after sending my mobile phone back to my supplier because, as I told them, it had a faulty battery, they kindly gave it back to me still in situ only with a helpful label on it:

The new Samsung Faulty range was not a marketing success

Of course, it would have been more generous had they sent a working battery, but at nearly five quid that would have been far too generous for a tiny start up company like Virgin Media.

My own employer was also in a giving mood this festive period, and we had a new water dispenser installed in our ambulance station so we no longer have to lick condensation off the windows (which  was unnerving the firefighters in the adjacent station and putting them off their porn and fry ups).

Emblazoned in bold type on the front is the name of the water dispenser. Sure they could have gone for something corporately acceptable and expected  like 'AquaTech' or 'HydroSpurt' maybe, but no. The mind responsible for product nomenclature in this company, presumably ensconced somewhere on the right side of the autism spectrum that we all occupy to some degree, went for something much greater:

Behold, the Double Ay Double Three Double Zero Ex!

That, my friends, is the AA3300X.

An awe inspring name I think you'll agree, possibly more suited to a merciless robotic killing machine than a water cooler but that just adds to the impact. I insist on calling it by its full name whenever it comes up in conversation.
"Just going over to the AA3300X. Anyone want any AA3300X juice?"
"Are there any AA3300X cups?"
"Deploy the AA3300X!"

I'd like that trend to continue. Maybe bring out a new stapler called the PX-Buffalo or a Desk-Hawk Z9000 Tactical Hole Punch.

Anyway, this time last year I was in melancholy mood as I was at work, and blogged about it because that's what I do. I complained (a bit) about not getting into the christmas spirit which is understandable when one has to treat it like any other working day.

This year was a smidgen different though. I got given a new knife and a book on whittling, and also some booze because it's a classic combination, but I was also given a particularly valuable gift that would have been quite difficult to wrap.

I got gifted the gift of . . . *profound face* . . . time.

Obviously I don't mean someone gave me a watch, even if they are also difficult to wrap. No, this year I was one of the lucky few granted annual leave over the festive period, so didn't have to go to work and instead got to witness the full delights of my offspring opening their presents, open mouthed and agog at how prescient Santa must be to know exactly what they wanted, even though they've talked of nothing else since September.

Apart from the occasional thought about how much cheaper this time of year would be if I had naughty children, I really enjoyed myself and definitely did get into the spirit of things. I appreciated the food, the merriment, the indoor conifers, the stupid hats, the company and the giving. I suppose it seemed even more special because time off with my family . . . well, it's not a given.

I'm working over the new year, but I think I can manage that without undue grumpiness now.

Here's wishing you and yours a very happy one.

The Fun Starts Somewhere!

I found it a bit difficult to get into the old chrizmuzz spirit this year, due to work commitments making me do stuff for money on the 25th of December.


Normally you might think that an areligious type like myself wouldn't get particularly festive anyway, having quite literally the same amount of soul as a metre-square bit of tarmac with a dead squirrel on it. Literally.


But you'd be wronger than a monkey wearing a toupee, because I DO actually quite enjoy christmas, having been brought up in the pseudotraditional environs of working class England. Lights, glittery stuff and indoor conifers all break up the tedious grey monotony of the typical British winter, and I'm all for that. We need that bit of distraction. 


If it weren't so, why would it have persevered for so many centuries, millennia even? There must be a basic psychological benefit in having a mid-winter jolly or else why would such a thing be adopted and adapted by so many cultures and religions that have arrived in these murky island regions thinking they're the new way of doing things, when in reality we all know they're just a rehash of some old ways of doing stuff that can't change too much because their basic unit of composition is still the human being. 


Scathing about organised religion as I know I can be, I do like a bit of a knees up and the occasional present, so if that means I have to be spiritual to have a bit of fun without being labelled a hypocrite, then hand me a dog collar and pass another barbequed haunch of choir boy.


So I have missed out on the celebrations a tad, especially now I have small children because christmas is primarily about them. Watching them open their gifts on a video doesn't quite capture the full pant-wetting squeals of excitement as they realise they're allowed to play with ALL that paper, and even the toys inside if they want.


I'm not complaining really. Well, I am, but only because I'm trying to elicit sympathy despite being allowed to do a job I enjoy, which probably isn't going to happen now that I think about it.


So I won't.


Stir the violins! Play a maudlin tune of deprivation for me, fiddlers! Fiddle me sad and I shall darnce the Darnce of Melancholy, whilst wearing the blue Pashmina of Forlorn Despondence.


Oh woe! Woe is I! Woe to the max! There is woe in my hood! My hood is all woey!


There we go.


But at least we have got the New Year coming up and, if christmas is for the kids, New Years tend to be more adult orientated,. We can celebrate new starts, pretend we know more than ten per cent of the words to Auld Lang Syne and drink enough booze so that, should we collapse in a snow drift, we wouldn't actually freeze until the temperature drops to the solidifying point of ethanol. We can make solemn oaths about fresh endeavours to improve ourselves, whilst simultaneously consuming enough food and drink to smother a rhino. We can sing and dance and stay up late and party and bond and be free and above all, above all else, we can have FUN!


Oh man I love fun.


If anything, I'm more excited about the New Year than Christmas!


Oh cock, I'm on nights.




.

Merry . . . Saturday!

Christmas time, and I'm off, which makes a decent change.

Doesn't seem a year since I was lamenting being at work over christmas, but it was!

This year, however, I am of a different ilk, and can join in the festivities without the possibility of having to zoom off to have my mood ruined by someone selfishly having a heart attack or taking an overdose on this most joyous of of days.

Yay!

Now, There is actual, genuine snedge outside and the kids are gradually coming down from the excitement of evidence-less faith in a big fat guy who lobs toys down your chimney even if you haven't got a chimney. As well as sugar.

Presents have been given and received, telly has been watched, dinner has been eaten and the traditional bicker has been attended to. Both stomachs and marriages are close to splitting, which is the official sign of a successful traditional exmuss.

My son, who is a few months short of his fourth birthday, turned his nose up at the stonkingly good home made beef wellington with all the trimmings, and opted instead for a Babybel cheese and a slice of bread (no butter) for his christmas dinner.

This is actually better than might be expected because, if it was his choice, the christmas menu would be something like this:

Starter: Minstrels.

Main Course: A Minstrel joint with flambéed Minstrels, roast Minstrels and boiled Minstrels, drizzled with a Minstrels jus.

Dessert: Minstrels crumble with custard. Made out of Minstrels.

This would of course be followed by a nice cup of Minstrels to finish the meal off. And maybe a quick look at the Minstrels board.

I've flicked through the films, and was quite excited about Shrek the Third and Top Gear, but in general I'm not overly bothered about telly. This is good because, well, let's face it, the TV selection is pretty crappy, and that's even with the most up-to-date supermarket freesat box. The Queen's Speech wasn't even done by Helen Mirren. Just some old granny in a bling hat.

Mind you, I would've been more excited about even the most straight-to-bargain-box-in-Blockbusters offering if the synopsis was like the one I saw just a couple of weeks ago on Movies4Men:

Rogue agents are ten a penny. In fact, the majority of secret service agents are rogue. And that's political dynamite, that fact.

Rouge agents though? Well, they're a different breed altogether. Not only are they charged with hijacking Concordes (presumably by going to an air museum and towing it out), but they must do so looking fabulous!

Now though, in the here and now, things are quieting down. Peristalsis is overcoming what initially seemed like a insurmountable obstacle and now just looks more and more like a big job, whilst alcohol gently caresses my system like a cerebral Thai lady-boy with well-oiled hands.

So I have a moment to reflect.

Yup. That's some good reflecting there.

Good reflecting.

Anyway, let me take this moment to wish you a very happy Saturday, and please spare a thought for all those who have to work over the weekend.

Happy christmas.

Merry . . . Friday

Regular readers of The Gravel Farm will be aware and probably impressed with both how chock full of great I am and my peerless stoic resilience when it comes to not wanting a fuss to be made.

After all, I keep a blog, which demonstrates exactly how I like to keep things under my hat.

But today is an exception.

Today is Christmas Day.

At the moment, my family are preparing a turkey and trimmings. They are opening presents. They are laughing. They might be arguing. They will have had bucks fizz for breakfast. My little boy is probably weeing himself with excitement about the presents (unless he's been unable to resist opening them, in which case he will, in time honoured tradition, be playing with the boxes and ignoring the toys).

Our pagan heritage is represented by a plastic tree with some lights on it. Our christian predecessors have left us with . . . er . . . Santa, I suppose. Our cultural influences have ensured we buy too much food and alcohol and indulge in some abysmal telly. Mostly though, it's about maybe having a bit of a laugh, chewing some fat, wagging the old chins, but above all getting together.

Me?

I'm at work.

*frowniest face evah*

This has never bothered me before. I usually work Christmas, and quite enjoy it to tell the truth.

I work for the ambulance service, primarily on a car on my own rather than a double-personned vehicle, because too many of my colleagues complained about the wandering hands and halitosis. And the roadkill collection. And coming to work in my pyjamas.

On Christmas day, people are generally in a good mood. Most of my calls are not particularly serious (usually slips, trips and chest pain after eating half a turkey) and, if someone needs a paramedic, they're surprisingly pleased to see me, which makes me feel all appreciated.

Even if they only want me for my morphine.

So far I have had . . . a chap who slipped on ice and appears to have fractured his tibia and fibula, a lady who slipped on ice and has fractured her humerus, and a lady who slipped on ice and has hurt her back.

There's a theme developing here, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Hopefully, all of them will be pain free and patched up relatively quickly, with cheerful Yuletide messages scrawled on their plaster casts.

Normally, this is enough for me, and I'm happy to be out and about.

This year, however, things seems a bit more melancholy. Much as I enjoy my job, it occurs to me that I would prefer to be at home.

Working on your own can be a tad lonesome. Last year, I was so desperate for company I drove down a very snowy lane so that people would have to come and dig me out and I could talk at them:


It's more fun on the full size ambulances. You can bring in treats and wear Santa hats which you have to remember to take off before attending a serious car crash for health and safety reasons. Full size ambulances (we don't call them vans because . . . er . . . we just don't, all right) are intrinsically more impressive as well. When showing my little boy the inner workings of ambulances, it wasn't the car he wanted to look at:

He's two now, so he really needs this sort of work experience. It took him a couple of goes to hit the 8-minute response time, but he was good at carrying the bags up the stairs so I'm going to go easy on him for his annual performance review we rigorously have every three or four years.

Still, I finish work at 18.15 hours, Greenwich Meany Time, give or take a late job, so it won't be long before I'm back in the bosom of my family and drinking advocat, whilst wondering why I'm drinking advocat when there's whisky and beer available, so I can't complain.

Well, I can complain. Volubly, in fact. But I won't, because of the aforementioned stoicism I so impressed everyone with earlier.

Instead, as it's Christmas, I shall put up a gratuitous shot of an ambulance on a job. This isn't an ambulancy related blog, because there are better, specific ones out there and I don't need to retread old ground, but forgive me the odd lapse into blue light territory.

I took this one a few months ago at a roll over RTC* while we were waiting for a very excited local farmer to turn the car the right way up with his fork lift and unblock the road:


See that on the car near the rear wheel? That's totally blood that is.

Mine actually. I had a nosebleed.

Anyway, I'd like to wish all of you a very happy, healthy, family and friend filled day,

In fact, I hope you all have a very happy, healthy, family and friend filled year.

After all, Christmas is only one day.



*RTC stands for Road Traffic Collision, the new term for Road Traffic Accident, because apparently there's no such thing as an accident. This car had rolled over but not actually collided with anything, and I don't think the driver meant to do it, so I still think RTA is more appropriate. Still, what do I know?