The Christmas Day Intertitle


Who has time to read blogs on Christmas Day? Who has time to write them?

Who has the mental energy to read Gothic script, ffs?


Well, we’re having a quiet time at the Shadowplayhouse. The folks are dropping off some turkey and some presents.

Things Fiona got for Christmas:

Clinical depression

Acute anxiety


Chest infection

Things we both got: acute insomnia.

The good news is, I think the insomnia and flu have knocked out most of the parts of Fiona’s brain that are capable of depression, so her spirits are comparatively good, for a shambling zombie. I went four nights with no sleep and then finally got a few hours unconsciousness, so I’m basically fine and dandy apart from a tickly cough and my left eye, which has gone a bit Herbert Lom.

When it rains (at forty-five degrees and I don’t mean centigrade) it comes through the living room ceiling.

“I have a feeling this is going to be the best Christmas ever,” says Cary Grant to Carole Lombard as he battles pneumonia in a ratty hotel in IN NAME ONLY, and I feel the same way. My optimism is as hard to get rid of as my chesty cough.

Here’s a one-hundred-year-old Christmas movie. It’s quite something!

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