It all began a number of years ago. I was at home. There was a gentle snow falling down on the house. Jingle Bells was playing on repeat. And everybody was happy. Or so it seemed on the surface.
That night when I went to sleep full of anticipation of what the next day would bring, I could never have expected what was to happen. When I woke, and tip-toed down stairs, I opened the door of the sitting room and there - under the tree - was absolutely no presents for me. I was completely bereft of any gifts.
I was devastated - it struck me right to the heart, as we all know Christmas is all about what you receive as an individual. And for me, I had received nothing and that meant Christmas was meaningless in its entirety to me.
Panicking, I went outside - maybe Santa had left the presents outside of the house? But could find nothing. I went further into the local woodland, I went further and further in with my festive pyjamas getting colder, and sadder as I went in search of just presents - all I wanted was presents, that’s all I needed. But then, but then, but then.
I only bloody realised it was 24th of December, didn’t I? I’d done it a day too early. I had been the silliest sausage. And when I returned home and woke the rest of my family up and they heard what I’d done, they turned me into a literal pig in a blanket. They just wrapped me up like a little sausage and said “don’t you leave the bed” and “you don’t know the true meaning of Christmas”.
And we all lived mostly happily after. But the next day they didn’t actually give me any presents as I’d been quite ungrateful. So the moral of the story is - keep your disappointment to yourself and just buy your own presents.