a day to forget

Christmas is coming up in gigantic steps. It seems just a few weeks ago it was still months away. Now, it's here, in your face, everywhere, and impossible to avoid. Although our family will mark the festivities largely gift-free for the second time, I'll have to get a few little things, not the least of which is the five-pound item for the lab Santa. As every year, so I'm told, we'll each buy a small gift, wrap it neutral aluminum foil, gather the lot in the middle of the table during our Christmas lunch, and play for it. It goes like this: Each one in succession throws a die, and with a six or three, you can take from the heap what you fancy. By the time the table is cleared, some have acquired a gift while others have not. Obviously, some have amassed more than one. So far, so unfair.

Traditional Christmas values of generosity and kindness are completely thrown out of the window in the second part of the game. With no unallocated gifts left, the throwing of the die continues, except now you get to steal someone's gift with a three or a six. That's when the screaming and scheming starts in earnest, generously fueled by booze provided by our boss. Five minutes later, the game is halted, the lucky ones open their gifts and celebrate while the unlucky bewail their fate.

I've known what I wanted to buy for a while now, and today I went out to make the purchase, if that's an appropriate word for something that costs only five pounds. After a short ride on the Central line, I found myself in Oxford Street, surprised that there was not a single bus in sight. The street is normally closed to private vehicles on weekends, but on Very Important Pedestrians Day, it is complete traffic-free. To appreciate the impact of this, one has to see Oxford Street on a regular Sunday. Two parades of buses, one slowly moving west, the other equally slowly east, fill the street in its entire length. It's a spectacle in itself, and that's why stepping out of the Bond Street tube station gave me such a startling surprise this morning.

This other surprise, a few days old already, was that I've got sick in the most bizarre of ways. At night, I lie in bed, being boiling hot and freezing cold at the same time, and cough my lungs out as if I had smoked since age thirteen. In the morning I'm drenched in sweat but cold. During the day, all open symptoms vanish, no runny nose, no sore throat, no teary eyes, but my head feels as if it had been smashed into a pulp. I'm drained of all energy and can hardly keep myself on my feet.

This morning, I popped my new wide-angle zoom into my backpack to take some epic pictures. A band of Salvation armists, the bells of their eight trombones shining in the sun, would have made a good shot, if I had just dared to squat down in front of them to take it. However, I was too afraid I wouldn't get back up and, lying on the ground twitching, become an attraction myself. I continued zombiing along the street, feeling and maybe looking as if I had died last night, and blended in smoothly. Snow princesses on stilts, half the cast of Star Wars in all their shiny armor, mechanic nutcrackers, and plenty of musicians kept the crowds entertained and me invisible.

In the end, I couldn't take it any longer. I had planned to go to Southbank for some creative input in the Landscape Photographer of the Year exhibition and maybe take a shot or two along the Thames when the sun set, but I had to accept defeat. My body was so weak that even my will couldn't make it move anymore. I hopped back into the Central line and am now lying on my sofa, waiting that this episode of fatigue will pass. Oh, and I have the gift in my backpack.