By

Craig Ennew

—

Sixteen: Twas the Night Before Christmas

This week: a strange old man in a red dressing gown comes to the rescue

Twas the night before Christmas; we’d still not moved house.
Not a creature was moving, not even a mouse.
The solicitor claimed applications were pending
(Which translates to mere mortals as ‘hell never-ending’).
Our buyer was fuming, removals on hold;
And hour by hour, I was getting more bald. 
We’d so wanted to move but were left feeling hapless-
Not a wink of good sleep, though The Boy had a mattress.
We’d dreamed of a fireside Yule near The Cove
Not leftovers warmed on an old camping stove;
Instead of a tree hiding gifts freshly-wrapped,
We’d mountains of boxes containing our crap.
No dekkies for us, not even a bauble,
No sounds of sweet choirs, just swearing and squabbles. 
The telly stayed on: to assuage all our strife
We could still catch Eastenders or Call the Midwife.

But what’s that outside?  I hear such a clatter – 
I spring from my camp bed, to see what’s the matter.
The moon’s out in full (better pop on my gown!) – 
It could be a thief, but I’m still going down,
‘There’s nothing to steal!’ I hear my wife shout,
‘It’s all been packed up, sold off or shipped out.’
But there at the door, to my keen eyes appear,
A magnificent sleigh and eight splendid reindeer.
There perched at the reigns, looking well peng and sick,
Is a portly old geezer we know as Saint Nick.
He winks and he whistles, pulls tight on his reigns;
With a voice like a fog-horn, calls each one by name:
‘Now, Starmer! Now, Rayner! Now, Wallace, Now Putin!
Come Anton, Craig, Motsi; Come Shirley, you sweet things:
If no-one will move them, then we must enforce it – 
Let’s get these good people to deep darkest Dorset!’
So on go the boxes, my wife and The Boy;
And we fly at great speed crying ‘Lulworth Ahoy!’
With the stars up above and the wind on our back,
We’ll spend Christmas yet, cozied up at The Shack!

©Craig Ennew 2024

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