An open letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I have always been polite in my previous correspondence, and I've been good, nauseatingly so at times, but your seasonal offerings of later years have left me cold. I don't like being taken for granted. I have therefore decided to end our relationship. You are no longer on my Christmas card list.

Although, to be precise, I haven't exactly deleted you, more like transferred you, to another list.

What? You can't work it out for yourself? Okay, I'll give you a clue, if I must. It rhymes with a synonym for head lice.

Still in the dark, old man? Knocked your noggin on too many mantelpieces over the years, have we? Or perhaps all that snow has caused neuronic frostbite. But of course, all those free beers people leave out for you would've prompted some significant premature cell death, and then there's the saturated fat laced cookies that will be lining your arteries, slowing down the blood flow to your brain... I guess I may have to be a little less cryptic then. Get you up to speed. Let me spell it out for ya, Santa Pants--you're gonna go-go-go, ho-ho-ho, no-no-no longer.

Yours malevolently

Holly


 Oops...did I just threaten to kill someone? I hope no policemen are reading this...

Thumbing a ride

I don't usually pick up hitchhikers. Probably because I don't have a car. Or a driver's licence. I believe one of those is required to get behind the wheel of a motor vehicle these days. Oh well. I s'pose I could always offer someone a ride on my rusty crusty dusty old bicycle. Or maybe not. On reflection, I doubt my vintage bike could cope with someone straddling the handle bars. You should hear how loudly it creaks when there's just me on it. People turn and stare. I kid you not. I'll get around to oiling it one day. Promise. And fixing the brakes. That too. Guess I better make a list...And try not to misplace it anywhere. Again...

Anyway, as I was saying, or trying to say, this afternoon I did pick up a hitchhiker. I stuck out my thumb, and offered a baby stick insect a lift. He/she was marching, quite assertively, along the footpath. Thankfully, I was gazing at the pavement at this precise moment, and not the clouds. Clouds are one of my favourite things, so I do look at them quite a bit. I shudder to think what might've happened if the clouds had been particularly riveting ones today. Let's not even go there.

Anyway, as aforementioned, this little critter had quite a confident gait, (albeit a bit of a wobbly one, but I reckon that's inbuilt.) This caused me to wonder if he/she needed any assistance, but the footpath is rather wide, so out my thumb went. The stick insect showed no hesitation whatsoever. He/she climbed aboard! His/her tiny feet tickled my thumb. I gently relocated him/her to a slightly more stick insect friendly environment. A nearby bush. Good grief. Talk about a cutie. Stole my heart.

I would show you a photo. If I had taken one. But I left my image capturing contraption at home. Damn it. Something else to write on the list, I guess. When you leave the house, don't forget to take your camera....
 
I did stop and say hello on the way home. As I passed by the bush. It was just a brief salutation to the shrub in general as the stick impersonator was nowhere to be seen. (And I confess I was a little worried that the people who live at the house that the bush belongs to might think I'm a freak if they catch me talking to their greenery too often. I have stopped to admire/ogle their fine crop of lawn daisies once or twice. Or maybe three or four times. I haven't been counting. Hopefully they haven't been either, but one has to think about these things.)

I'm hoping the stick figure found a pleasant leaf to hang out under. Somewhere where birds, and cats and other creatures that might intend it harm, can't reach. The bush hadn't received a haircut in my absence, so that was a comforting sign. Here's hoping all is well in baby stick insect land...