So for this week’s blog I've decided to be all festive, take a seat, sit down, go on, take off your coat, sit by the fire, have a mince pie, some mulled wine perhaps?
So, It's Christmas on Friday, Wow eh? I say this because it really hasn’t felt like Christmas this year at all, not until Saturday in fact. Now I know what you’re thinking, “Joe, You rosy cheeked Christmas elf! How can you not notice Christmas the most magical time of the year?”
Well, dear reader, sit down, next to the fire, with a mince pie and some mulled wine and I shall tell you, MY Christmas story....
It all begins about halfway through November, you know the time, Halloween is a few weeks ago and therefore Christmas stock is in, people are beginning to ask you what you would like for Christmas, (and you still have no clue), and in the Joe Strange household, “Christmas” is a forbidden word. The thing is, me, being a 7 year old at heart, (I still, for instance laugh at the word “titmouse”) get very very excited around this time of year. Mystery, family and flashing lights, are all things that both get me excited and happen around this time of year. So to that effect, I decided this year that I was not going to even think about Christmas until December, which meant 2 weeks of avoiding the subject in November. This would mean that I would have more fun when it came to December and I finally joined in the party. Of course, no one told me that these 2 weeks of ignoring the “C” word, as it would then become known as, would be so painfully hard that I ignored the telly and stopped asking people what they were up to in case any variant of the word “Christmas” turned up, Noel, the holiday season, Xmas, national eat all you can day. This was particularly hard when it came to the notorious Coke advert, with its pretty lights and catchy jingle.
So at first I was avoiding the season, and now, I’m having trouble getting into the festive spirit, and as of Saturday, as I said, I am in the spirit, but that was 6 days before! I know i intended to be late to the party but not so late that the good nibbles were gone, all the fun people were gone and all that was left was breadsticks and people passed out!
So, I’m obviously being awkward about it, I hear to you think, I’m not, or not intentionally, I’ve had things on my mind since the beginning of the month which have subdued the festivities, as I mentioned 2 entries ago, my stand up show was taking up a lot of my thought time and my energies, which didn’t leave much room for small things like Jesus’ birthday, and then, after my gig I had to focus on getting college work done in time so that the last day of term could be a blast (I got it done, and it was).
Even the slowly increasing number of Christmas cards in my possession and the influx of tinsel in the college didn’t affect my Christmas mood.
Now I know you’re all thinking I’m some sort of scrooge, but it’s not just me personally that has had trouble with the whole Christmas thing, a friend of mine today said “Christmas gets worse as you get older”. Now while I agree on some points, the mystery is gone, people ask you what you want, the giant beardy paedophile doesn’t actually exist and you can no longer go to Santa’s grotto, I have to disagree with others, for instant, when you’re a kid the idea of family isn’t as cemented into your brain, and for me that’s a major draw for Christmas, I love my family, the atmosphere is more conscious as well, for once you do get into the mood, Christmas makes you feel ecstatic. (Hopefully or else here’s a humbug). And of course there’s the alcoholic excuse, this time of the year it’s perfectly acceptable to buy vast amounts of booze and not feel guilty, and if that isn’t a Christmas blessing I don’t know what is.
Another reason I think I’m not in the Christmas mood is because of the considerable lack of Christmas decorations in the house, you see, we keep the decorations in the attic, I’m the only one who can fit up there and therefore if I am away at college or work or unconscious, I am unable to retrieve these items and so there is no Christmas cheer in the Strange house.
2 things this weekend got me into the Christmas spirit, first of all, like many of my problems, this lack of festivity in my mind was solved by a few people, not my close friends, not my family, not even the A-team, but The Barenaked Ladies. This is by far my favourite band, for a number of reasons, but i recently and completely legally came into possession of their holiday album, which involves an extraordinary rendition of “jingle bells”. I challenge anyone to listen to that song and by the end of it not feel Christmassy, except you Ebenezer. And second of all, it snowed this weekend, and for those who live in the arctic, or Canada, or Greenland, this may not sound very impressive but here in Cornwall, it’s a ruddy big deal, it causes the entire place to grind to a halt, which is highly impressive. (For more information on this subject see blog entry “with this carrot”)
So thanks to those few things and of course, help from others, I have reached the point where I cannot wait for Friday the 25th of December. So thank you everyone for everything they’ve done for me this year, and this month, even if it’s as simple as reading this blog. Merry Christmas.
Joe Strange
If for some reason or another you do not celebrate Christmas please replace all instances of the “C” word with you’re holiday.
Showing posts with label Snow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Snow. Show all posts
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Sunday, 15 February 2009
My Attempts at Creative Writing.
So, since I'm doing a English Course at college, I am having a go at some creative writing, and in class we had to write a few short openings or stories, so here they are. The first one, based on the Gothic style (as are most of the shorts, mainly due to the fact that that is the required genre) the 2nd one based on the sentence "A homeless man is looking into a luxurious house on Christmas eve, the 3rd and 4th are very similar, the 1st one based on the snow we have had in the last month, the second one is a slightly more sinister approach to the previous script.
The Castle (working title)
“Go on, I dare you” Steve said with a laugh. “Unless you’re chicken”
“No one calls me chicken!” I shouted back; already battling through the rain, climbing over the broken, rotting fence and slipping up the cobbled path.
“Besides, what’s the worse that could happen?” I added, tripping on a protruding rock and face planting the muddy floor. The water, surging down the meandering path cascaded over my face. Wiping my eyes, I looked up. The Lynchfield Manor loomed over the village of Witch-wikety, paralysing the residents with fear. The tall spikes pierced the dark sky which was heavy with ominous clouds. As lightening crackled and flashed in the distance the castle cast sinister contours through the sheet of rain, which raced down my back, alongside a shiver that chilled my bones. My clothes were heavy with water. Stumbling up the path, covering my face with the palm of my hand, I slipped again. Catching myself once more I looked back, but the fence let alone Steve’s spindly figure were gone, they had been enveloped in the oncoming mist and rain. Alone I continued up the damned path I was close enough now to see a solid silhouette of the castle. Suddenly my heart sank, my brain froze and a shiver big enough to hit the Richter scale ran down my spine, a yellow hue appeared in one of the spires. A room light. I couldn’t go back, I wasn’t chicken. I had to go in.
A Man (Working Title)
Sheets of snow pelted the heap of rags which lay contorted on the paving; it shifted closer to the stone wall, in the hope of absorbing the heat which emanated from the warm noisy room which lay concealed behind it, the smell of roast duck leaked through the window above the heap which began to stir. A figure rose from the dark pile, it peered into the window gripping the snow laden frame, a nose pressed against the cold glass, he saw a child run around a glittering Christmas tree, covered in bawl balls that rotated peacefully whilst the star on top twinkled as though the light from the ebony fire was concealed inside the ornament itself. Another child ran past the tree, tinsel flowing behind him, he tripped on a toy, a red wooden train, and fell to the burgundy carpet; tears flooded the child’s eyes. A young, beautiful woman strode over to the fallen youth and held him against her frilled dress; the faint sobbing was soon overcome by her soft singing. The figure stepped away slowly from the window into the consuming snow, a tear froze on his cheek as he shuffled into the moonlight, stepping away from the house for the second instance this Christmas.
Snow
6.46 am. The ceiling of grey seals away any of the early dawn that could exist on a cold heavy February morn. The torrents of snow assaults the roads, houses and beaches, footsteps left by early scufflers and post deliverers fade away under fresh sheets of the invasion. The Yellow hue of the street lighters is obscured by the swarm of flakes. The tide desperately repels the white, alien substance, but to no avail. The docked boats indistinguishable to the parked cars. A stray cat, caught in the attack seeks shelter in an overturned bin which could easily be mistaken for a tree trunk. The snow bombards the roads that were so under prepared for such an onslaught that they succumb to their assailant, cutting off the small village from the outer world. Faint lights appear all around; life stirs as the chime rings for 7.
Black Ice
6.46 am. The bleak insipid charcoal coat seals away any hope that accompanies the chance of an early dawn on a cold, constricting February morn. The torrent of white assaults the desolate paths, roads and houses. Footsteps long since left by early scufflers and post deliverers are inexistent in the bare paving which is covered in the new invasion. The flicker of a street lighter casts an ominous hue through the swarm of flaks. A morning tide feebly battles the white alien substance. Docked boats undistinguishable from their tarmac counter parts. A figure lamely limps to an overturned bin for shelter; the new sanctuary straining under the weight of its foreign cover. The assailant from the sky bombards the desolate roads which lie as forgotten as the village it connects to. Even though strands of light begin to forlornly struggle through the wall of cloud no life stirs at the chime of 7.
The Castle (working title)
“Go on, I dare you” Steve said with a laugh. “Unless you’re chicken”
“No one calls me chicken!” I shouted back; already battling through the rain, climbing over the broken, rotting fence and slipping up the cobbled path.
“Besides, what’s the worse that could happen?” I added, tripping on a protruding rock and face planting the muddy floor. The water, surging down the meandering path cascaded over my face. Wiping my eyes, I looked up. The Lynchfield Manor loomed over the village of Witch-wikety, paralysing the residents with fear. The tall spikes pierced the dark sky which was heavy with ominous clouds. As lightening crackled and flashed in the distance the castle cast sinister contours through the sheet of rain, which raced down my back, alongside a shiver that chilled my bones. My clothes were heavy with water. Stumbling up the path, covering my face with the palm of my hand, I slipped again. Catching myself once more I looked back, but the fence let alone Steve’s spindly figure were gone, they had been enveloped in the oncoming mist and rain. Alone I continued up the damned path I was close enough now to see a solid silhouette of the castle. Suddenly my heart sank, my brain froze and a shiver big enough to hit the Richter scale ran down my spine, a yellow hue appeared in one of the spires. A room light. I couldn’t go back, I wasn’t chicken. I had to go in.
A Man (Working Title)
Sheets of snow pelted the heap of rags which lay contorted on the paving; it shifted closer to the stone wall, in the hope of absorbing the heat which emanated from the warm noisy room which lay concealed behind it, the smell of roast duck leaked through the window above the heap which began to stir. A figure rose from the dark pile, it peered into the window gripping the snow laden frame, a nose pressed against the cold glass, he saw a child run around a glittering Christmas tree, covered in bawl balls that rotated peacefully whilst the star on top twinkled as though the light from the ebony fire was concealed inside the ornament itself. Another child ran past the tree, tinsel flowing behind him, he tripped on a toy, a red wooden train, and fell to the burgundy carpet; tears flooded the child’s eyes. A young, beautiful woman strode over to the fallen youth and held him against her frilled dress; the faint sobbing was soon overcome by her soft singing. The figure stepped away slowly from the window into the consuming snow, a tear froze on his cheek as he shuffled into the moonlight, stepping away from the house for the second instance this Christmas.
Snow
6.46 am. The ceiling of grey seals away any of the early dawn that could exist on a cold heavy February morn. The torrents of snow assaults the roads, houses and beaches, footsteps left by early scufflers and post deliverers fade away under fresh sheets of the invasion. The Yellow hue of the street lighters is obscured by the swarm of flakes. The tide desperately repels the white, alien substance, but to no avail. The docked boats indistinguishable to the parked cars. A stray cat, caught in the attack seeks shelter in an overturned bin which could easily be mistaken for a tree trunk. The snow bombards the roads that were so under prepared for such an onslaught that they succumb to their assailant, cutting off the small village from the outer world. Faint lights appear all around; life stirs as the chime rings for 7.
Black Ice
6.46 am. The bleak insipid charcoal coat seals away any hope that accompanies the chance of an early dawn on a cold, constricting February morn. The torrent of white assaults the desolate paths, roads and houses. Footsteps long since left by early scufflers and post deliverers are inexistent in the bare paving which is covered in the new invasion. The flicker of a street lighter casts an ominous hue through the swarm of flaks. A morning tide feebly battles the white alien substance. Docked boats undistinguishable from their tarmac counter parts. A figure lamely limps to an overturned bin for shelter; the new sanctuary straining under the weight of its foreign cover. The assailant from the sky bombards the desolate roads which lie as forgotten as the village it connects to. Even though strands of light begin to forlornly struggle through the wall of cloud no life stirs at the chime of 7.
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