Oh damn, still in this dream.

I hope everyone's got their Christmas/Festive holiday thing sorted.
Being nominally Christian, I grew up with a fairly traditional Christmas. This year, like the last couple, I've done little, and plan to do no more.
Mother's going oop North to Mike & Alexis.
So I shall be by myself. Luxury. Luxury. My cup brimmeth over, as the good book says.
There are times when only indulging in one's misanthropy will do, which is what I intend. I fear the savage side of my wit shall be forever private: but I shall write insult and injury privately and not here, as is proper. 'Twould not do to hurt the defenseless, and most of the folk contributing to my mood are indeed idiotically defenseless: and those I would pillory in petto, if that's the phrase I'm stretching for.
Also I'm bloody angry with myself for not copy-editing my own comments before posting. Just fucking bang away at the keyboard (I almost wrote typewriter) and post. Arsehole Ninefingers screwed a famous Yeats quote and deserves a metaphorical kicking.
Truning and turning - ouch. (Never mind the displacement of i & e earlier in the text.)
I'm meant to be better than that...oh what the fuck, who am I kidding.

But to redeem myself I give it to you in full.

TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

and then shall follow it with

I bet the Squirrel gets a good book deal.