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Merry December. Not.
Blimey O’Reilly's trousers, are we never to be free from the Fun zone?
Today my darling little sister, otherwise known as Libby the Mad, came home from nursery school covered in tinsel with her Father Christmas list. On the list are “spoons,” “a wombat house,” and “some fur legs.” At the end she has written “fankoo Sanny Klutz.” I said to Mutti, “She will have to go to a home for the bonkers.” Mum said. “I know. Where on earth am I going to get fur legs at this time of year?”
You see what I have to put up with at “home”?
Anyway, I am not bothering with prezzies this year. As I pointed out to Jas and her many owls, “This is Baby Jesus’s birthday. It has nothing to do with presents and ligging around holly bushes and so on.” She has had her fringe made especially irritating for the festive season and was flicking it around like a loon on loon tablets. Then she said, “They didn’t have the same calender year as us in Baby Jesus’s time, so how do we really know it is his birthday on December 25th?”
She is soooo annoying, and also probably going to hell in a handbasket now that she has been so rude to our Lord, who, as we all know, can hear everything you say, even on the loo.
I suppose I will have to try and join in. Sven is having a special reindeer party with a prize for the best hooves. I know that it would be the sensible thing not to go, but he has been working on his reindeer disco dance and I can’t help it, I want to see it. We will all probably end up in the hospital, or at the very least the animal rescue center, but that is Chrimboli for you.
I hope you have larks and mayhem and whatever, but remember: Yes, beards are fun, but I haven’t met a boy yet who can see through the beard to the real you.
See you next year and I luuurve you—every single cotton-picking one of you, as you so amusingly say in Hamburger-a-go-go land.
P.S. You do have Chrimboli over there, don’t you?
P.P.S. Well, I have to ask because there are a lot of things you do which are frankly quite puzzling to me.
P.P.P.S. Come on, you know what I mean, all the turkey business and pumpkin pies and so on.
P.P.P.P.S. And I didn't want to bring it up in the season of good will and so on, but the July 4th thing: why are you all so jolly because some of you tipped a lot of tea in the harbor, that is all I am saying.
P.P.P.P.P.S. But I do love you. A LOT. xxxxxxxxxxx
The Confessions of Georgia Nicolson
by Louise Rennison