The Christmas Day Intertitle

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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?

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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

Flu

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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