It’s like Suzzan brought the holidays to town with her;

(and it is better than if she’d brought the circus to town, because that would involve only peanuts, maybe, and those’d be for the elephants);

Suzzan has brought the holidays to town with her, and, full of holiday spirit, we do crazy late-night shops at Sainsbury’s—crazy late-night shops that result in pretty tins of chestnut spread, in little pots of chocolate desserts—and we come home to melt Mars bars in small saucepans of fancy milk.

The milk, I have had my eye on for a while—only because of the label; and I know it is what my mother would call, with some disdain, pian gee nah—to fool children—but I cannot help it. On normal days I buy the organic semi-skimmed, but because it is holidays, we spring for the luxe milk. I mean, please: the creamy golden milk, the pedigree cows—just put me in a plaid shirt already, and stick a shaft of wheat between my teeth. That beat in the background? It is a hoe-down.

Still, guess what, the holidays are coming to a close, because I went and got me a gig. At a children’s press, no less. Things are on the up and up! Oh, but, these things? That are on the up and up? They are not my salary. The salary is down, down, down, downer than the paychecks I get from temping. It’s FINE, let’s just call it that good ol’ inverse relationship between job meaningfulness and cold, hard cash.

At my second interview at the press, the managing director said: “...and we love your enthusiasm.” “Oh,” I said, “that’s kind of you to say.” “Yes,” she said, “when you came in last week for your interview, I was in a conference in another room, and I heard you speaking...” “Oh,” I said. “Um. Hee hee hee.”