Those two bald headed days in November before the first snow flakes sail

Joni Mitchell, Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter

I have no particular idea what Dame Joni was on about there* but for me it’s the whole feeling that permeates November; countless people wishing their lives away by pointing out on an hourly basis that’s it’s nearly Christmas, so that they’re imbued with that notion of “hurry up and stand still”.  On the 5th I was listening to the football results on Radio Scotland (much humour, some unintentional, and a free insight into the Scottish psyche besides) when a wee punter opined,  “Aye well, that’s us nearly into December, Jim,” which caused much shouting back at the tranny** by me.  I fully expect this week to hear someone tell me we’re nearly into the next millennium.  Anyway, where was I, oh yes, trying to explain, clumsily, my notion of the behemoth retail Christmas being held back in its stall, snorting and stamping, clouds of vapour breath engulfing it on a frost sharp morning,  until the gate finally opens and it erupts, as a nation screeches to the shops to make themselves miserable in the pursuit of happiness.  I do love the day itself though.

*  I do so but that’s another post.

** transistor radio, not transsexual, although should Jim Trayner favour that option then I wish him all the best.  Are there transistor valves in a digital radio anyway?