So here it is...

... Merry Christmas! Everybody's having fun.

Well, no, they're really not. It's no fun at all in here today. In fact, everyone's quite, quite miserable. It's that time thing, you see.

Look to the future now...

How bitterly ironic that line now seems. For here we are in the future and, good God, isn't it dispiriting? As Dave so rightly pointed out, by 12:01am tomorrow everyone's presents will have returned from whence they came. So, yes, Christmas in Not 4'33": a time for sombre reflection, grim stoicism, and a few desperate last-ditch attempts to bleed dry some treasured possessions of whatever lingering drops of joy may still be held within. Albert and Lucy have decided to see it out in bed. Maybe they've got the right idea, but I can't help feeling that they're just postponing the inevitable. It'll all still be there in the morning. Or not.

[sighs dejectedly]

Oh well, it all raises some interesting questions about the real world, though, doesn't it? Wouldn't we all appreciate gifts more if we knew the date they would be taken from us? And maybe the same rule applies to people? Wouldn't it be nice to be able to prepare ourselves for the heartbreak and sorrow of loss? To cherish those last moments together?

Or, perhaps, not. Perhaps we would all just become complacent in the knowledge that should we, say, offend someone, we would have x days to repair the damage. When I think about it, not knowing when people will be taken from us should lead us to value them more, to enjoy every moment with them in case it is our last together. But that's not what we do, is it? We assume they will always be there. We take everything for granted. We lie to ourselves. And why not, quite frankly? If we lived life as if everything could disappear at any moment, we'd all be bloody knackered. It'd be bedlam, I tell you! I mean, good grief! What a ridiculous idea. There's a reason life is built on lies. It makes for less running. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

Anyway, this reversed time thing. All nonsense. And frankly, I can't be arsed with it. Besides, time was always heading forwards anyway - you can't halt the inexorable march of time etc. It's just the dates that are going backwards here. I mean, time heading backwards? Who ever heard of such a thing? Why, that's crazy talk! [All rights to use time related pretences to score satirical points off the present should I be feeling clever enough at a later (or earlier) date hereby retained (it's my blog, it doesn't have to be consistent, I'll do whatever I damn well etc.)].

So, yes, the upshot of all that: it really is Christmas on Not 4'33". Woo, and indeed, Hoo! A proper Christmas. Holly and ivy, mistletoe and wine, parsley and sage, gifts on the fire, logs on the tree, turkey under the grill etc. Personally, I'm still facing it with grim stoicism, but everyone else seems to be enjoying proceedings. The tiresome twosome are bouncing all over the place, knocking stuff over (Santa got them matching space-hoppers, the great woolly-bearded swine) and being all happy and jolly and all those other things I can't seem to quite get right. Miranda's clawing things off the tree quicker than I can put them back on. The telly's blaring out some execrable dreck from the Christmas pop charts. The Christmas cake seems to be suffering from subsidence. I've had to cook a full Christmas lunch even though I don't much like the stuff, because, well, it's Lucy and Albert's first Christmas and I feel obliged. Frankly, the only bright spot on the horizon is the Eastenders Christmas special. The unremitting bleakness always lifts my spirits. And I suppose later I'll be forced to play consequences, charades and all those other games telly was supposed to replace. Oh well, at least Monopoly's always good for an argument.

Right, well, I suppose some of you will be wanting a breakdown of all the gift giving. Well, what do you buy for a bunch of blog posts? I didn't have a clue. I mean, they've got the whole worldwide web at their disposal. Everything's on there. So, gift tokens all round. Plus socks, lumps of coal, Easter eggs (there seem to be rather a lot around for the time of year) and the complete works of Schopenhauer (anything to stop their relentlessly chipper ways, not that they'll read a word of it, mind). Miranda? Well, we bought her all sorts of toys, but she seems to prefer playing with bits of string. Always the way with cats, the contrary little beggars. Mind you, you have to like that about them; the contrariness, that is.

I'm not sure whether they were trying to cheer me up, or just annoy me, but Lucy and Albert bought me a selection of self-help books, some Abba CDs and some rather dubious looking Prozac. I probably should have given them a list. Here's what L & A got eachother

For Lucy, from Albert:

• Lots of nice sparkly things
• A Coen Brothers DVD Box Set
• A subscription to Heat magazine (just to wind me up, no doubt)
• Some things I've been told I mustn't mention and it's none of my business anyway
• Plus he wrote her a nice poem, but she won't let me see it. It must have been good, though. She got all overcome and had to wipe away a tear or three. And they were still kissing when I got back from basting the turkey (whatever that might entail).

For Albert, from Lucy:

• A Playstation Portable games thingy
• Clothes that actually suit him and fit properly
• A week of debauchery for two in the location of his choosing (he just better take Lucy, or she'll be furious)
• And a guitar (God help us all).

So, too soon for a marriage proposal it seems. Maybe some other time. Then again, they'll probably just get drunk in Las Vegas and I'll be the last to know about it.

Don't worry, I didn't forget about that Darren person who seems to be locked inside Bernard the Bundes-Bedroom. We all gave him some gift tokens. He'll never get to spend them, of course, but they were all that would fit under the door. I don't know, I suppose we could have fed a magazine or book under the door a few pages at a time, or something, but it's a lot of trouble to go to for an uninvited trespasser. Which reminds me. That smell and the rumour that he may have died. Not true. He's just stopped washing. They say personal hygiene's the first thing to go when you're depressed. Mind you, when you're trapped in a bedroom with en-suite bathroom, surely having a wash is one of the few leisure activities left to you?

Who or what is this blog post? Well, that's your festive surprise. Have a look in the comments.

Right, best go check on the turkey. I wouldn't want it waking up before it's fully cooked.

What? How am I supposed to know how to kill a turkey. A few sleeping pills, shove it under the grill - seems like it could work.