This year I think most of us are finding the holiday season perhaps a little damped by festive spread of revision that's been laid out before us by our ever loving parents and teachers. Whatever you celebrate, be it Chanukah (which is most fun to say when you pronounce the 'Ch'), Yuletide nonsense or actual Christmas with Jesus in, you can't escape the feeling that you're incapable of dedicating yourself entirely to festivity and mirth this year.
I'm actually a pretty big fan of Yuletide nonsense myself. Before we broke up for Christmas I had resolved to resign myself to worldliness this year, reasoning that Easter is the more spiritual period of the calendar and that the birth of Christ has nothing on his death and ressurection, thus allowing me to immerse myself fully in 'Christmas Magic', something I am a firm believer in.
Then Mr.Escort and his rag-tag band of prefects ruined it. They hosted a Christmas service that went along the lines of 'We know nobody really cares, so let's look at all the morals of the Nativity that have the least to do with Jesus.' I'm not kidding. It awoke within me a deep sense of indignation. A highlight has to be when we took a look at the shepherds and observed that they were working really hard at their job, which is great because they didn't have to do it and people might not have know if they didn't. ('Now everybody work hard at their exams over Christmas.' was the unspoken whisper that seemed to punctuate the end of every sentence.)
Anyways, I got thinking about how the shepherds were great. Not so much that they were diligent and worthy, but that they were the dregs of society and God chose to announce one of the most reverent events mankind has ever witnessed to them through a blinding choir of ineffably holy angels. The whole ordeal brilliantly juxtaposes the glory of God with the meagreness of man and highlights the absurdity of God coalescing the two, desiring man to share his glory whilst humbling himself into the body of a man, achieving our righteousness and his glory through the self -sacrifice of Christ. Yeah, I was quite ready to just enjoy Christmas on a pretty shallow level, then I remembered that it was actually pretty special that the guy who holds up time and cannot be contained got born, and what's more, all for our sake. Mental.
Anyways, I took a lengthy interlude during that last paragraph to decorate the Christmas tree and fail at cutting simple festive shapes from biscuit dough. I don't adopt a policy of complete, or even partial abstinence from Christmas gaiety, I just get (as our beloved friend Miss. Montana would say) the best of both worlds.
Something else you should all care about is my excursion to Chingford Mount. Sometimes I do things and while I'm doing them I think 'other people should care about this'. That is what this blog is for.
Last week, or maybe a couple of weeks ago, I went to Chingford Mount to order myself a new one of those magic band cards. I probably shouldn't write that on my blog, but feel complimented that I naively trust you as part of my entire readership. Anyways, I went down to yonder Mount and did said task, but then found myself in a commercial district with adequate time and money on my hands. I am beginning to realise that this story is not very exciting, but it's too late to stop now. Long story short, I went to the pound shop (I have a shameless love of pound shops) and bought some 'Wheetos vs. Alien Invaders'. Pound shops are where I get my fix for obscure foods, and I was left well sated by my 'Wheetos vs. Alien Invaders', not so much because they have a mildly toffee-ish flavour or contain different shapes which could represent alien invaders if there was enough money in it, but mostly because I can say that I'm going to have a bowl of 'Wheetos vs. Alien Invaders', which is four words long and can't really be shortened in any way without losing meaning. It's like I'm eating an entire concept.
I also went to few charity shops, which is where I get my fix for 'industry defining games' or 'games that are old enough to run on my computer.' It's like reading the classics, only much less impressive. I left a shop that had something to do with cancer having bagged a copy of the first ever Tomb Raider game. My mother observed me playing it and remarked that she'd heard 'most men just like chasing that behind'. Whilst this did help to sell the game when it first came out (and, interestingly enough, was predominantly accidental), Mother Lovell and I have little to worry about in terms of wholesome thinking, because whilst I'm sure she's conceptually 'hot', as you young ruffians would say, the graphics of the time have rendered her hilariously bun.
Great. I'm off to do a physics paper.
I'm actually a pretty big fan of Yuletide nonsense myself. Before we broke up for Christmas I had resolved to resign myself to worldliness this year, reasoning that Easter is the more spiritual period of the calendar and that the birth of Christ has nothing on his death and ressurection, thus allowing me to immerse myself fully in 'Christmas Magic', something I am a firm believer in.
Then Mr.Escort and his rag-tag band of prefects ruined it. They hosted a Christmas service that went along the lines of 'We know nobody really cares, so let's look at all the morals of the Nativity that have the least to do with Jesus.' I'm not kidding. It awoke within me a deep sense of indignation. A highlight has to be when we took a look at the shepherds and observed that they were working really hard at their job, which is great because they didn't have to do it and people might not have know if they didn't. ('Now everybody work hard at their exams over Christmas.' was the unspoken whisper that seemed to punctuate the end of every sentence.)
Anyways, I got thinking about how the shepherds were great. Not so much that they were diligent and worthy, but that they were the dregs of society and God chose to announce one of the most reverent events mankind has ever witnessed to them through a blinding choir of ineffably holy angels. The whole ordeal brilliantly juxtaposes the glory of God with the meagreness of man and highlights the absurdity of God coalescing the two, desiring man to share his glory whilst humbling himself into the body of a man, achieving our righteousness and his glory through the self -sacrifice of Christ. Yeah, I was quite ready to just enjoy Christmas on a pretty shallow level, then I remembered that it was actually pretty special that the guy who holds up time and cannot be contained got born, and what's more, all for our sake. Mental.
Anyways, I took a lengthy interlude during that last paragraph to decorate the Christmas tree and fail at cutting simple festive shapes from biscuit dough. I don't adopt a policy of complete, or even partial abstinence from Christmas gaiety, I just get (as our beloved friend Miss. Montana would say) the best of both worlds.
Something else you should all care about is my excursion to Chingford Mount. Sometimes I do things and while I'm doing them I think 'other people should care about this'. That is what this blog is for.
Last week, or maybe a couple of weeks ago, I went to Chingford Mount to order myself a new one of those magic band cards. I probably shouldn't write that on my blog, but feel complimented that I naively trust you as part of my entire readership. Anyways, I went down to yonder Mount and did said task, but then found myself in a commercial district with adequate time and money on my hands. I am beginning to realise that this story is not very exciting, but it's too late to stop now. Long story short, I went to the pound shop (I have a shameless love of pound shops) and bought some 'Wheetos vs. Alien Invaders'. Pound shops are where I get my fix for obscure foods, and I was left well sated by my 'Wheetos vs. Alien Invaders', not so much because they have a mildly toffee-ish flavour or contain different shapes which could represent alien invaders if there was enough money in it, but mostly because I can say that I'm going to have a bowl of 'Wheetos vs. Alien Invaders', which is four words long and can't really be shortened in any way without losing meaning. It's like I'm eating an entire concept.
I also went to few charity shops, which is where I get my fix for 'industry defining games' or 'games that are old enough to run on my computer.' It's like reading the classics, only much less impressive. I left a shop that had something to do with cancer having bagged a copy of the first ever Tomb Raider game. My mother observed me playing it and remarked that she'd heard 'most men just like chasing that behind'. Whilst this did help to sell the game when it first came out (and, interestingly enough, was predominantly accidental), Mother Lovell and I have little to worry about in terms of wholesome thinking, because whilst I'm sure she's conceptually 'hot', as you young ruffians would say, the graphics of the time have rendered her hilariously bun.
Great. I'm off to do a physics paper.
