Friday 18th December 2015

Some six years ago, I was working minimum wage at the box factory, trying to win some kind of bizarre talent contest with three other guys for a single job as a machine operator. That was a low point, trying my hardest to get a shitty job at six quid an hour. It would have meant never traveling, but we would have struggled, and anyway, some two years ago I would probably have lost it in the first round of redundancies. Jools lst hers what, 18 months or so back, and now we hear there is yet another round, affecting all departments as there is more cost-saving.

A year ago, I was leaving for a week away undertaking two audits with the customer in Germany, arriving home just in time for Christmas. It was hard work and fun, but this year I tried my hardest to ensure that I would not be traveling Christmas week this year. Which is why I am home now. Already, and with just a day left of work, which is going to be mainly meetings and reviewing documents.

Years ago, the chicken factory we would be still working like crazy; the final orders for the festive period would leave the factory on either the 22nd or 23rd, and the final day or so would be taken with tidying or hiding from the supervisors.

Life in the RAF generally slowed down in December, with most people getting an extra day off for Christmas Shopping, or going down the pub as we used to do. There would be rounds of parties, festivities and Christmas meals in the mess, then two weeks off, without taking leave, certainly in later years as it was policy to wind the heating down to save money, so we were encouraged to go back to our families.

On the high seas, when I was a survey engineer, that I was always at sea come the 25th was a bone of contention between me and Mr Mould, and his failure to honour a promise in the summer that my name was on top of the list was the final of many nails in that coffin of work. In those three years I was at sea, the weather was always calm on the 25th, a full working day, and certainly no booze, just something alcohol free. THat first Christmas at home, even being on minimum wage was very special.

We have declined an offer of Christmas with the old folks. I feel bad because it is Jools' family, but as I spend so much time away, I yearn to be at home, or just doing stuff with Jools on the big day. We don't buy presents, do anything really special other than eating, drinking and making merry. It is a week to the big day, we are making shopping lists, but I have ordered our Christmas meal, and will collect it in the early morning of the 24th. Two weeks off, no mails, no meetings and no document reviews.

We should go and visit Mother. I am not keen, but she has now decreed she would like a handbag for Crimbo; my fault for asking I suppose, so tomorrow we will go to M&S on a bag hunt, then, who knows. But before then, there is today, work, then cooking, then, maybe the first part of the Christmas Hobbit-thin, as we now have the extended version of all 6 of the LOTR/Hobbit films, so lets see how they hang together. Then on Monday the 3rd series of The Bridge shoud arrive, and that will make excellent Christmas viewing, as you can't beat a good murder or two.

There is little chance of snow this Christmas, it is 14 degrees out there, in places snowdrops and daffodils are already out, spring plants are showing above ground, and the wind is set in the south for the next few days. I can only remember it snowing once at Christmas during my childhood, it began just after lunch on the 24th, and I can remember playing outside until it got dark. I was so excited. So, outside it is mild but grey, and on Monday it will be the shortest day. Out in the woods and on the downs, orchid rosettes are already showing, spring is not far away, but between now and then, we could have a real winter. Or not, of course.

Thursday

I sleep some ten hours and yet still feel crap in the morning. This is soon explained by a sneezing fit as a fairly major allergy attack hit. I take drugs and even take to bed after dropping steroids up my nose. In a couple of hours, it fades to nothing, but leaves me drained. I have no idea what set it off; dust or perfume, once I am breathing freely, it really is no different to how it was when the attack began. One day I will understand it. I suppose.

I have work to do, but meetings keep getting in the way, as do document reviews, then I have to tackle the pain in the arse that is travel expenses. So I creat four reports, then send them off to Jools to print. The rest will have to wait, and I will have to find time on either Monday or Tuesday to scan the receipts to send them to my boss.

Mid-afternoon, news comes that Chelski have sacked their manager, Jose, aka, the happy/chosen/special one. He's now the unemployed one of course. Which means the radio and Twitterverse is fill of little else. Still, makes a change from the unrelenting grim news from round the world.

After dinner, Jools watches more Enterprise, I listen to the radio as Radio 5 discuss Chelsea to death. Finally, we watch the final part of Frank Skinner's history of light entertainment, with him re-creating Max Miller's act. Or at least part of it. You can see a clip of The Cheeky Chappie here: