Story time

This is the most dispirited Christmas I’ve ever spent.

So here is my Chirtsmas story, especially for you people of Blogland. On a good day it’ll make me feel all warm and fluffy inside. On a bad day it’ll make me sneer. Oh, and it happens to be true. But anyway; here goes:

1.The place :
the countryside, north of France; an endlessly flat land, stretched all the way to the horizon. You expect cows, or at least cabbage fields. There are none, because.....:

2. The time: 1915, the coldest fucking winter since.. since at least the Franco-Prussian war. The one before the one I’m talking about. They’re not called Prussians anymore, but the enemies speak the same language.

3. The cast: German soldiers on the one side (the guys with spiked helmets downing bad beer)
French soldiers on the other side (the guys with the rounded helmets swiging crap red wine)

4. Synopsis: They are on either sides of a demarcation line. Helmets are either pointy or rounded, but trench foot is a constant. Both sides are intent on anhiliating each other, because this is what wars are about, and it is war. Until then, they spend their days and weeks crawling in mud, fighting rats for bits of stale bread, and playing cards to try and forget the infinite boredom and the certainty of death.

And then it’s Christmas eve, even in trench land.
Some say that the Germans start singing first. I can believe that, since the French are not known for their musicality. But somehow they join in. And a truce is called, people!
It is said that gifts are exchanged - lumps of coal? tin mugs? dead rats? who knows. And later, they play a game of football. That can’t be easy on the trench foot condition. (Can you imagine kicking a ball with rotting feet wrapped up in rotting bandages and no shoes? But that’s me spoiling this magical moment with my cynicism. No wonder A could’t stand me. Stop digressing. Sorry.)

And the following day, they go on trying to slaughter each other.
Oh, bless.

5. Morale of my story: So now I better stop moaning about my Christmas/life/lost love. At least I don’t have trench foot, and no-one is forcing me to play football wearing a spikey helmet. So now I’ll go swig some Vendanges Tardives Gewurztraminer 1995, which is the God of all wines.