It’s bloody cold.
Let me just start with that because then you might understand why moving my fingers is beginning to actually bring physicals strain today. Perhaps I need a lie down, but there’s no rest for the wicked, as they say, and seeing as the number of jumpers I have seems to have dwindled in the past few years this could actually help me warm up a little. Thank you for being my fireplace, internet.
So there are twelve days left until Christmas, but I’m afraid I possess neither a pear tree or a partridge so you’re not going to be getting anything today. Sorry, better luck next year, although I fail to see how that present is rewarding in the slightest. At Christmas time the pear tree won’t be bearing much fruit and unless you’re planning to eat the partridge it’s probably going to take a lot of extra care from you to survive through the winter, especially if it insists on not moving from that pear tree I found it in.
If Santa really did live on the North pole he’d have a hard time supporting a population of deer, especially one that’s going to last him his entire run on this earth (which I’m assuming is either forever or until humans die out). Not much grass grows on ice, as far as I know anyway, and if he gets it imported then he’s contributing to emissions that will eventually cause the ice his home is built on to melt and he will be sent plummeting into the North sea.
That’s a cheery image for this chilly day, no?