New Year; so far so good. No deaths. No swine flu epidemic or equivalent. No tornado or quake or drought or Bermuda Triangle disappearance, not on my patch anyway. There is, however, one helluva storm blowing tonight. Horizontal angry rain, lashing my windscreen, big tin dust bin fulls and I am mildly irritated by the prick driving in my rear view mirror. He has one headlight out and the other, full beam, aimed directly at me. At first, I thought the prick was a biker, a crazy one at that, out on his bike in this weather. I may of then excused the extra light on the situation, but no the stupid prick was a car driver. Yes, yes, I’m on my high horse, I recently had my faulty headlight bulb fixed, thankfully before the drive home tonight. So, who am I to get all holier than thou about breaches to the highway code?
I know, he’s also on life’s dual carriage way, going somewhere, or nowhere, to get a life or find the one in the shadow of a reduced beam capacity. I am sufficiently unnerved, I indicate right, as if to leave the round about. He over takes me on the outer lane. Safely past, I indicate left and return to the road without a full round around the roundabout. Now, I am behind him and so I feel it my duty as a fellow motorist and citizen to engage my main beam in his rear view hoping he will be alerted of his headlight folly. Losing a headlight in this weather is a big deal.
I swerve to avoid strewn dismembered tree branches, the chosen music blankets the creaking of arthritic oaks whose tree surgeon did not attend the last appointment. I imagine these ancients torn from their roots, crashing just behind as I twist and turn on the public highway. Maybe in a Hollywood blockbuster fantasy, but the reality of the storm has me dodging the green recycling bags that people have in their misguided wisdom put outside! It’s recycling day tomorrow.
The County Council Christmas trees may have to be salvaged before 6th night. They whirl and swirl like windmills at a thrash metal ball. The chap, now ahead, could use a wayward festive bulb to light his way. Couldn’t we all use a little extra light? The kind of light that is promised in the Christmas story, but sadly, has mutated into an orgy of all consuming retail heathenry. Apologies to a heathens everywhere. Retailism isn’t even Neopagan.
“Christmas is fake.” I declared.
As if the tide would stop rolling in and my feet would sink deeper in the dry sand underneath. Alas, to this Viking Queen my declaration is of no surprise or revelation to anybody but myself. This Christmas, unlike many before, I not only asked;
“What’s the point?”
I replied with conviction;
“I don’t know.”
I have read blogs lately that mention elephants in rooms. In a different context. This elephant, in this, “what’s the point?” context is sharing my settee, (with a larger derriere than the warranty will cover), and, even if it were returnable and refundable to the money sucking settee shop, the elephant would not be moved, at least not yet.
I did a lot of sighing over the Christmas break.
Tonight however, I count my blessings, I live up a hill, so Noah’s flood or any other imminent Nostradamus prophecy fulfillment won’t prevail. Tonight it’s just me and the elephant and the raging storm. The Canute Queen commands: save as many places on the arc as possible for all elephants in all rooms and all other venues everywhere. It will save them from another continent’s misplaced religious beliefs. Ivory trader’s beware, if I were God, I would damn you all to hell. Alas, the Viking Canute is aware of her own limitations. Be kind to elephants. They need their tusks much more than you do and you need to be on their good side when they occupy your living room.
Thankfully, life begins again, all shiny and new with January. It is a very good year. A year for hope. A year for love. What else is there? Faith? Faith and Hope? Faith and Hope and Love? And the greatest of these is Love.