With your lights and reindeer and mistletoe, trees, Santas, sleds and snow always on display – no matter what the time – effects and ephemera inscrutable to the clime, shooting forth tendrils of tinsel, kitsch-besmirched wall hangings, yard statues, mobiles, dioramas, singing penguins, of course singing penguins, because that makes sense.
Oh! Christmas Warehouse, you incongruous vessel of festival fakery forcing festoonery on flavourless homes, as husbands and wives argue about how much is too much to spend on a kilo of lamb while pasting up decorations for Christmas in July.
(Eventually, they will hate one another and separate and meanwhile I can’t even get myself unhappily married legally).
Oh! with lurid leers you taunt them, displaying your wares unaware that they have other homes, houses without Christmas every day. Or are you all too aware in your bedraggled finery of the frigid austerity that will soon embrace them?
Oh! Christmas Warehouse, plonked on Botany Road as people zoom past on their way to the airport or work or anywhere, anywhere but to the glistening warm hearth you promise on this blustery blue July day.
Oh! Warehouse, you are an emetic to all ho ho ho humbugs
especially,
Me.
