Things are starting to feel normal again. The last remaining scraps of ham from the holiday table had already been sandwiched between hardened white breads and were cheerfully gobbled up by our housemates. The fridge is due for a defrosting anytime. I have also already developed a temporary aversion to anything that resembles ketchup-red spaghetti or any of its other mutations. Boxes and torn wrappers have already been disposed. A couple of dozens of cheap Tivoli lights we strung around plastic garlands in the early parts of last year’s December already have half of their numbers busted. I have now returned to my usual coffee-and- broadsheet morning rituals. It’s time now to get some things done. Holidays are finally over. I need now to quickly make myself useful in some way lest I begin irking people whose Christmas-y smiles and uppity dispositions are now fast thawing under the relatively humid temperature of the first days of January. Bus terminals are again literally bursting at the seams with a mass of angry, tired passengers all eager and anxious to either return to their provinces or be back in the city to once more slave away in the next few months and earn a few pittance for a yet another orgy of indulgences come this year’s set of festivities.
A grown-up’s holiday consists of these three: worrying, spending, dying …how I pine for those days long past, when holiday simply means playing, laughing, enjoying…
”unless one become like one of these little ones, he cannot enter the kingdom of heaven” (Mk 10)
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