The presents are wrapped, the turkey’s prepared, I’ve had far too much sherry already so it’s clearly time for something festive like I promised last week. This is what happens when you leave me unattended for ten minutes with alcohol and the internet. I apologise in advance.
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even the trows.
The adverbs were all hidden away with care,
In hopes that the writing muse soon would be there.
The writer was nestled all snug in her bed,
While visions of water-horses danced in her head.
And wrapped in a Christmas jumper all too exciting,
Had just settled her brain for a small break from writing.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the curtains and threw up the sash.
The sleigh on the driveway, I must confess,
Rear-ended the car and made quite a mess.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a bunch of cross kelpies, dressed up as reindeer.
With a surly young driver, his brows all a-furrow,
I knew it must be a brooding YA hero.
More rapid than eagles his kelpies they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them rude names!
“Now what’s this about? You’re on a vacation?
That’s not how this works, with the writer’s vocation!
Get your laptop back out and stop arsing around,
Or I’ll randomly burn your house down to the ground!”
He leapt down from his sleigh, strode into the kitchen,
And drank all my sherry, without even twitching.
He started up Scrivener, made a new file,
And bade me sit down, with a lopsided smile.
He was muscly and lean, a big hit with the girls,
And his hair fell about him in dark messy curls,
His brown eyes were twinkling all conciliatory,
Hiding, no doubt, a big tragic backstory.
He spoke no more words, but went straight to the door,
I’m sure that a kelpie just shat on the floor.
He climbed on the sleigh and waved through the window,
And, plot bunnies given, away he did go!
The writer kept writing, be it Christmas or not,
Since you have to use all the free moments you’ve got.
But, three sherries in, the night ‘fore Christmas day,
We wish you good tidings, and piles of YA!
(Merry Christmas, happy Solstice, excellent Yule and a suitably debauched Saturnalia to you all. And keep writing, even if you’re drunk and everyone else is passed out in front of Morecambe and Wise. You know it makes sense.)