Continued Confessions

about holiday traditions

Today is Boxing Day, which as a child in the Isle of Man we celebrated by going to a panto at the Gaiety Theatre on the seafront promenade. A pantomime is described by the New Oxford American Dictionary as “a theatrical entertainment, mainly for children, that involves music, topical jokes, and slapstick comedy and is based on a fairy tale or nursery story, usually produced around Christmas” and thanks to the internet, I just looked it up. Today the show “Dick Whittington” will be performed at 1 and 6 their time, so it is currently underway. What fond memories that evokes, including when I took Mum back to visit as she was descending into Alzheimer’s. Sitting in the theatre together was something I’m so glad we included in our itinerary.

And speaking of modern marvels, I was able to spend about half an hour visiting with my cousin in Spain on Christmas Eve and seeing the renovations to his place as he toured me around by phone. As. much as I find the tech bro culture distasteful, I will begrudgingly give them kudos for some inventions. I put down the Jobs biography for the holidays, but now my dear friend sent me the Musk bio by the same wonderful writer, Walter Isaacson. So as a treat on Christmas Day I dove into his story instead. OMG as I enjoy saying. What a pugnacious childhood in South Africa, which also rings bells with my story because my Mum’s mother took off and settled there with only one return visit to England that I recall. Perhaps there is something in that place which nurtures people who lack the empathy gene? Anyway, I also had to remove the dust cover from this hard back gift. Musk’s stare is not quite as piercing as Jobs’ but I find it disturbing nonetheless. My hat is totally tipped to Walter for keeping his humanity while reporting on such mercurial brats.

Back to Boxing Day. The one tradesperson to whom I owe a “box” (otherwise known as a tip for services rendered) is the person who delivers my daily paper. Unfortunately, he/she left a holiday sticker with a name and address on it stuck to an earlier paper. At the time I could not make out the name, but I think I remember the address. Perhaps if I telephone the delivery number someone will enlighten me as to how to address the envelope.

And a final thanks to one of my readers, who introduced me to the legendary Quentin Crisp, an Englishman who moved to New York snd supposedly did not clean his apartment for thirty years. My kind of guy!

RESIST ALWAYS

TTFN