That's a Wrap

“But why? Why do you do this?” I wailed, as my boys cheered the antics of their naughty elf, kicking up great clouds of the flour he’d flung across the kitchen in the night. “It’s too much!”

“Well done, Elfie!” they squealed, their delight increasing with my every complaint. “Well done!”

Later, as I wrapped my children’s packages from other people, and anxiously considered Elfie’s next moves, I marvelled at the miracle of Christmas: the sublime elimination of all distracting elements, specifically, me.

I understand it! Oh! How I hate the type to be seen sweeping! Even more than I hate the type that wants to watch you sweep. Everything should appear and disappear as if by magic. Really, we should live like this all year round. Gifts freely given. Or not given at all. It would eliminate the bitter and the superfluous.

Several hours later, scowling at my organza ribbon, I remembered the icon painter. With pity. This pure man diligently laboured for years, until one day his efforts were realised, and he saw Christ in his painting. He was pleased; with himself. And Christ was so enraged He blasted both his arms off in fury.

I ponderously crunched the ice in my Baileys.

As a metaphor it makes sense. Of course you can’t take pride in perfect humility. You cease to be a painter of icons. You’re reduced to a romantic artist; then an abstract artist; then a performance artist, with an agent and a PR team, wanging on about being your own end. A talking head.

I signed another label from my in-laws.

But really, what about a little credit, where it’s due?

I weighed out their requests to Father Christmas.

What would all this be, without me!

Elfie eyed me from the top of the larder.

I poured another Baileys. It is me. But it’s the best of me. A side I don’t encourage. Giving completely. Perhaps blasting both arms off for ego is excessive. But these are the apocryphal exaggerations that tumble from our mouths when we forget the message of a story, even as we explain it to ourselves.

Asking for thanks, means something isn’t a gift, it’s a trade. Forgetting to give thanks, means a life lived without gifts, or grace, or love; a life that peaks at self congratulation. A dreadful idea.

I let Elfie do his worst.