As I write this, it is almost 7.30pm on Sunday evening, Christmas Eve. I am still at work, with the prospect of another ninety minutes before me. The last bus home left the bus station fifteen minutes ago.
As it happens, I live close enough to be able to walk home, if I want to do so at 9.00pm on Christmas Eve, on Sunday. In terms of distance, it’s not too far, although 90% of it is uphill, and it involves walking through a district that may not be the least salubrious where I live, but is definitely in the top three percentile.
And this is before I factor in my arthritic right knee. And hip.
However, courtesy of the holiday spirit of a colleague who I’ve never spoken to before, I am guaranteed a lift home. He’s said home and he means home, but I’m going to get him to drop me off outside the chipshop, which is a little bit nearer than the bus stop anyway, and much as I appreciate the gesture, I’m not going to drag him all the way down to the bottom of my road, when he’ll then gave to drive all the way back and turn right across whatever traffic there may be at that point.
No, it’s the fact that I’m still here at all, that they’re requiring us to stay until our shifts end at 9.00pm, even though we’re not getting any calls for our team’s discipline, and we haven’t been getting any all day, and after 7.30pm on a Christmas Eve Sunday, there’s absolutely fuck-all we can do to help now.
So I’m doing everything I can to get through the intervening time and reach 9.00pm and get out of here.
And now I am home and the world is locked out, and my kingdom may be small, in fact, the word is usually use is pokey, but it belongs to me, and me alone. Peace, if not on Earth then on the small section of it I call ‘home’. I raise a glass to all of you who read here, and wish you the Xmas Day that gives you the most.