Unemployed

Christmas is over. It was the season of, ‘Good cheer’, and ‘Good will too all men’. It was the, ‘Time of Plenty’, and ‘Merrymaking’.

A certain ‘Dickens’ quote springs too mind; ‘Bah Humbug!’

How I would appreciate a visit from the ‘Ghost of Christmas Past’, to whisk me back to a time where those phrases had real meaning and were descriptively correct. Back too a time of innocence and wonderment where the only real apprehension was as to whether ‘Santa’, would bring the longed for and much dreamed of surprise. Back to a place in my memory where I could wallow in youthful irresponsibility, giggling, recalling yesterdays transgressions, joyfully living out today’s and relishing more dastardly deeds for the morrow.

My young son looks at me in awe and I see in his eyes how he envies my ‘bigness’, ability and authority and I look back at this ‘miniature me’, this little man that I love more than my last breath and am glad that he cannot see or perceive the envy in my eyes for his smallness, trust and innocence. For I know he could have no concept of the reasons for my state of mind, nor would I want him too.

How I would dread a visit from the ‘Ghost of Christmas Future’, that he would whisk me forward too the reality of my nightmares, where the afore-mentioned celebratory phrases fall like flesh gouging lashes on an exposed and burden-bent back. Where brown envelopes with little cellophane windows, replace the traditional festive cards. ‘Final Demand’ is the new salutation, and ‘Santa’ was eaten somewhere south of the Shannon by a Tiger rumoured to be of Celtic origin.

How will my son see me then? Will the awe, once bursting and vibrant as a newly struck match, be burned out, and reduced to a twisted blackened dead thing, to be discarded; its once bright and inspiring light erased from the memory. Will the very real envy be replaced by equally genuine embarrassment when peers inquire of him, “what does your father do?” Will he, or can he, defend the father, whose love was once enough, and was returned with like purity but is now diluted with a pity that is only a sigh away from contempt.

Will he go ahead of me ringing the metaphorical bell and issuing the warning cry? ;

UNEMPLOYED! , UNEMPLOYED!