LIKE it or not there’s no getting away from the fact the festive season is but a month away.
You’ll notice I haven’t used the C word. That’s because I’m of the opinion it’s far too early yet to be thinking about all that business, let alone decking the halls with boughs of holly and getting into party gear.
But, I am merely one grumpy man and for others it can’t come soon enough.
The pubs and shops already have their festive decorations up and last weekend towns across the Fylde coast turned on their twinkling lights.
At Chez Stocks there are signs of the approaching jollities.
My Good Wife and The Old Folks have gone mad buying presents – the secret hiding place ( bottom of the wardrobe) is already overflowing.
And last week a note arrived from school informing us of The Munchkin’s role in the forthcoming nativity production.
What part has she got?
It would be wishing too much to think she might have the part of Mary but I don’t think it’s too unreasonable to hope for, say, an innkeeper, shepherd or angel.
So, there was some understandable consternation when we learned she was, in fact, going to be a chicken.
Well, that’s not quite true. The official school line is that she’s a hen. But I know a chicken when I see a chicken and the honest truth is, she’s a chicken.
Of course we’ve got to provide the costume which has sent the old noggin spinning, trying to work out how we might achieve such a feat.
But that’s fine because the big supermarkets all stock the costumes for the main characters. But I’m afraid there’s a real shortage when it comes to chickens (sorry, hens)
So we’re on our own, left to sort things out through our own creativity – in short, we’re in big trouble.
My suggestions have already been put on the pile marked ‘not on your life’.
My Good Wife was only too eager to point out the flaws in my Wallace and Gromit based proposal.
Apparently the penguin in The Wrong Trousers is disguised as a rooster and red Marigolds are harder to come by than you might think.
Of course, in the grand scheme, the costume (I’m thinking brown pyjamas and some kind of cardboard beak) isn’t really the most important part of the whole thing.
I remember how excited I was, dressed in my curtains and tea towel, clutching that pot of ‘gold’ ready to trip onto the stage, mumble my way through half a verse of Oh Little Town of Bethlehem and fudge my one and only line.
Chicken or no chicken, I can’t wait to see the show.