The first clue that the season to be jolly is fast approaching is when Mr. Wallethead gets out last year’s Christmas lights which he has placed neatly in a series of killer plastic bags: one for the tree, one for the porch, and a couple for the great outdoors.

Having carefully unravelled each string and tested it for dud bulbs, he spends half an hour plugging them all together and artfully hanging them around the porch windows before flipping the switch. This year, as in every year previously, two strings fail to light up despite his foresight in pre-testing and he stumps off, muttering darkly, to buy reinforcements.

Meanwhile, I flip through magazines, checking out this year’s colour schemes and decorating tips from the multiplicity of experts who lurk in the pages of every upscale glossy. Having gotten up to speed on the trends du jour, I unearth our ancient box of mismatched but treasured ornaments dating back to the year dot, and hang them haphazardly on the tree.

Much of the joy of the season comes from its time-honoured traditions. For example, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without The Globe and Mail’s annual Eat Free and Die nagathon, penned by its resident killjoy nutritionist, who advises against overindulging in turkey, Christmas pud, shortbread and the demon drink: anything, in fact, which might result in a modicum of comfort and joy.

Then there are the endless articles online and in print about how to make Christmas simpler by compiling lists, checking them twice and creating easy canapés (trust  me, there is no such thing as an easy canapé, unless it comes directly from the freezer in a box). My advice is to throw a ‘bring your own canapé’ party, or order in a large tray of sushi.

Since everyone’s an expert these days, I’d like to add a tip of my own to make your holiday season joyful and stress-free. Why not contact a disinterested representative of the Queen, with no affiliation to your nearest and dearest, and petition her to have Christmas dinner prorogued until late January, or better still, get a coalition to cook your goose, or turkey, for you?

Speaking of turkeys, our glorious leader appears to have revisited his image consultant for another injection of kinder, gentler PM serum. Perhaps he could add to our pleasure by donning a seasonal sweater and reading us a fireside Christmas message filled with fiscal joy. And let us give thanks that former Liberal leader Stéphane Dion will no longer be on hand to rebut Mr. Harper’s words of wisdom in his inimitable patois.

And if Peter Mansbridge covers this momentous event, I beg the CBC to cease and desist from incorporating into the proceedings a backdrop of fast-scudding storm clouds over the Houses of Parliament, which put me in mind of the hilariously cheesy, low-tech special effects employed by the BBC in the early days of Dr. Who.

Come 2009, of course, the warm and fuzzy fiasco will be abandoned and our beloved parliamentary representatives will be hurling insults and epithets across the floor in all official languages. One or two might actually be attempting to represent our interests, but I’m not holding my breath.

In light of the current debacle, it’s hardly surprising that women are sadly under-represented in the wonderful world of politics. As Maureen Murphy explained, “The reason there are so few female politicians is that it is too much trouble to put makeup on two faces.”

Categories: Columns, Vintage Whine
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