THAT WEIRD OLD MAN

"So have you got your tree up?" asked my Dad.

"No," I said. It is true. I remembered last year, going through that whole thing about real versus plastic and how difficult it was to find a plastic tree that looks like a real one.

All that talk about class distincition and reverse snobbery. This year, I haven't even put mine up! My Dad seemed disappointed. My Mum made a face.

Part of the reason is time. The last few Saturdays have been recovery days. The one before last (ideal for Christmassy prep), I spent conserving all my energy by being asleep. This latest one followed a barn dance gig, and preceded a concert at which I'd been asked to do some recording. I was sleepy to say the least.

Hopefully this weekend, I'll get the chance to put on a Spotify playlist and let Frank croon in the corner while I wrestle the tree down from the loft. It feels late though.

Better late than never, I suppose; I definitely don't want to be that weird old man who's too miserable, or self-consumed, or busy, to celebrate Christmas.

Speaking of weird old men... In a bored moment between writing about encryption end points and certificate stores, I wrote a poem about one. Just goes to show how productive I am when everyone goes home early for Christmas...


That Weird Old Man

That weird old man
Just looked at me
He's back outside
The window. See
His steely eyes
His puzzled gaze
It looks like he's
Been there for days

Where does he go
That scruffy bloke?
And does he think
It fun to joke
By staring through
The window pane
So silently
At me again?

I once ran out
To ask his name
And whether he
Might yet refrain
Politely from his
odd campaign
And find a more
enthralling game...

But when I got
There, he was not!
He'd scarpered from
His favourite spot,
That weird old man
With weathered beard
Outrageously
Had disappeared.

Until today. And
There he stands
With frazzled ends
And ancient hands
He's back again.
And silently,
That weird old man
Reflects on me