T'is the season to be jolly {jolly mean to one's spouse}

Over Christmas, I have had a twelve day break from blogging and today I come back to the keyboard full of fervour after the festive season and ready to recount a little incident that took place in the week leading up to Christmas Day. Unusually, the muddle-headed one this time was Giuseppe and not myself, and so I am taking full advantage of the situation and writing a poem to commemorate the fact that I am not the only nincompoop in this household. I have used the word 'spouse' here with poetic licence - we are not married (nor are we ever likely to be if he ever reads this ode to his inanity!)

I have come up with several dozen new year's resolutions, but after reading this you may agree with me that none could be as important as resolving to remember to put out the rubbish bin before going to bed on Bin Night ...

T'was the Week before Christmas 
(or Account of a Visit from the Garbo)

T'was the week before Christmas and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse.

Then all of a sudden, I heard the roar of a truck.
I woke up with a start and to myself muttered "f**k!"

For that racket reminded me of a terrible thing -
My dear Other Half had not put out the bin!

I kicked him awake and he sat bolt upright,
and he said "What's going on, why'd you give me a fright?!"

Then he too heard the clatter of bins down the street,
and low and behold he sprang to his feet.

He raced right through the house and out the back door,
on a mission, you see, to do yesterday's chore.

But alas, as I peeked from my curtain, aghast,
I saw that the truck had already gone past.

And there stood Giuseppe on the side of the street,
a moment too late, looking properly deplete.

"We're doomed now", I thought, "the bin's full and it stinks.
Now what the heck will the neighbours all think?!"

Then just at that moment the garbo reversed down the street,
and slammed on the brakes beside Giuseppe's bare feet.

"What's up, mate?" he said. "You forget ya bin day?
Don't worry, I've got it, it'll all be okay".

And so from my window I breathed a big sigh,
As the truck lifted the bin up into the sky.

Giuseppe gazed on, still three quarters asleep,
and he looked so horrific, I almost did weep:

His hair it was wild; he looked a bit like a bird,
He stood there in his jocks, looking downright absurd.

The garbo waved him goodbye with a big cheery smile,
For a scene quite like this he'd not seen in a while.

And I'm sure that he muttered, as he drove out of sight,
"I really don't think that poor bugger's too bright".

I wish you all a peaceful and prosperous New Year. May you find the courage to put as much of your true self into all that you write and all that you create in this new year. That is my greatest wish for myself next year as a blogger. 

And as such, as 2013 draws to a close, I would like to leave you, not with my words, but with those of the late, indisputably great, T.S Eliot;

"For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice".