Christmas is cancelled (well, almost)

Ever Dearest Diary,

Christmas was cancelled. Boned. Outta there. I dog gone missed it.

After being invited for drinkie-poos at a friend’s house (which I missed) there came a knock at the door. It was father. He insisted I accompany him into the land-rover. So, I stocked up on smoke, ’shrooms, study materials, Ronulus, coffee, everythang. This is just gonna be an awful Christmas, I just know it.

I can see what is gonna happen. Ronulus is gonna get shut out in the cold, without food; my old man is prolly back with his old lady, whom I don’t get on with. I am gonna spend the entire time trying to avoid father’s stern manner, trying to get on with my essays and exercises, simultaneously wondering with worry what on earth Ronulus is doing shut outside the cabin door shaking, in the freezing wet December weather. Meanwhile, dodging father’s assertive commandeering way about him I’ll be makin’ a log fire in the cabin, blazing up a phat spoocher or few, and sneaking Ronulus in through the back door, so he’s not cold and hungry any more. I think I’ll hold off on the mushies until the gig, maybe do a stage dive. For now I’ll just stay bang on the wine and spoochers.

After several hours sat in this vehicle I realise now that father is possessive. I told him, “Here is in the middle of a massive storm, I can’t make it.” So he takes the decision to make me visit him this Christmas. No choice. When he arrived at my door, I had only just put the coffee on, I was in the middle of my coursework. I had not even packed. He just insisted that I go with him.

I am just going to have to immerse myself in my books this week, try and forget about being ordered about and having no free will to make my own decisions, in father’s eyes.

I am going to just let my hair down back on the ranch, whilst simultaneously settling into my archæology paper. This Christmas trip is the last thing Ronulus needs, and not what I wish either. A little being my autonomous tokin’ self is on the menu methinks.

Finally, I realise that father is working Christmas eve which leaves me free to tinkle the ivories all morning. Woohoo!

\o/

Max.

Post-Script: It’s begun already. In at half gone the witching hour and father is already insistent. Little Ronulus bays for his master. I snuck him out some food and water and turned the chair back round (father has it turned down so poor little Ron’ has to sleep on cold cement). My little baby boy, down there, on his own in a draughty porch in late-December. There there Ronulus. I’ll take care of you buddy.

Ron’ is going for it with the howling now. Good boy Ronulus! bene púerum! You give ’em some stick lad. Keep father up all night.

He’s quiet now, having glumly arrived at the reasoning that after a ten hour jeep ride alone in the back, he must spend another ten hours, alone, in the cold dark draughty scullery.

Father insisted I go do this and that as soon as we had arrived home. I tried to meet his insistent demands half-way and we settled on an uneasy compromise. In any case, betwixt his sternness and stubbornness and my capacity for radical insubordination, this looks like it’s going to be a long Christmas.

Ron’s started up again, go on boy, and... stopped just as soon as he begun, realising there is no hope, for little Ronulus having warmth, or food, or company. G’nite Ron’. I love you mate. :'(