What about Larry?

The Elf on the Shelf smiling and looking cheeky, with the lights of a Christmas tree blurred in the background.

Recently, late at night, as my wife and I peel ourselves from the sofa to clear away our empty gin glasses and extinguish the fairy lights on our Christmas tree by wildly jabbing at the inaccessible plug socket switch with a mop, one of us will stop dead in our tracks and utter the following words: “Oh God. What the fuck are we going to do with Larry?”

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‘Tis the season for me to write about Christmas

“Always winter but never Christmas,” said Mr Tumnus, when explaining the White Witch’s icy grip on the wintry kingdom of Narnia. It’s a quote that evokes a desperate sadness; a snowy landscape that no longer captivates with its untouched, velvety beauty, but instead torments and imprisons, injecting a deathly cold into the shivering core of every living thing. ‘Christmas’ is nothing but a whisper evaporating in a cloud of foggy breath.

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