Thinking about thinking about thinking can make your brain feel as though it were a small peanut that somehow lodged itself between Goliath's toes. In fact, the strain of attempting to eke an answer out of infinity ultimately makes one give up on cogitating altogether, and instead usher themselves gently to the plush mind sofa of oblivion. Perhaps the subconscious may stir so much as to recollect a dim old ditty and work its rusty tune by contraction and manipulation of the erstwhile philosopher's vocal chords, but mostly, fixing vacant eyes upon a spot of grime on the window pane will is the only symptom of such a state.

So. Christmas is coming. Haha, jolly, jolly, merry, hee hee, look out there's a fatal missile of christmas pudding at 2 o'clock, happy birthday jesus, we three kings, stuff a musty sock in that dastardly carollers mouth would you and here's a broom to sweep them off the porch, and here's a banana if things get nasty, ho ho, jolly, merry...merry.....
Nope. It's impossible. I can't get into the Christmas spirit. It kind of rebounds off me. The intensity of the exposure or even the length to that gay atmosphere has little effect.

Little did Kate know that it was not her own oppressive and saturnine demeanour that was the root of this perverse attitude towards the momentous annual event. Little did she know what she inherited with the house migration; the creatures unseen and unfelt that lurked in the recessions of her room, their long fingers groping out in the deep of night, searching, searching to satisfy their selfish hearts. Not many people in this world know of whom or what i speak of. In this commercialised world, Christmas connotations must, for the sake of the bliss of the public and the expensive cars of the media men, be saccharine and mirthful. The legends of Santa Claus and his reindeer are thus propagated, the innocent traditions held, the pleasing symbols of candy canes and large golden bells, of holly and mistletoe, strewn about most the western world. Strewn like a chicken farmer would scatter pellets to his poultry, whilst hiding the silver knife that would in a day, a month, a year, rest on their scrawny throats and deprive them of the happiness and pain life has to offer. Perhaps it is a good thing that so many are nescient of those-which-have-yet-to-be-named. If awareness of their presence spread, the few informed scientists (who spend their nights in a cardboard box with a lighter and a potplant for company) have predicted that which can only be termed an apocalypse of spirit. No more taking snaps of little Johnny's eyes expanding to the size of crop circles as he tears open his new train set. No more warm smiles floating about in warm candlelight, which set the scene to a rosy blush. No more Christmas trees toppling over with the hundreds of tacky ornaments the children worked so hard and stickily at. Instead, families would spent the December month huddled up in a cardboard box with only a lighter and a potplant for company, breathing harshly, and gaping with unveileved terror at the very thought of those fingers...
They are called Scrooges minions.
It is of great misfortune to me that i am well-read in this area. That i had not gone to that library in Nabu, or eaten that chocolate eclair, so that i would not have to stoop to pick up the wrapper that had fallen from my hand; and thus discovered the trapdoor beneath the persian rug. That i had taken heed of the words
'IF YOU OPEN THIS TRAPDOOR, YOU WILL BE HOMELESS, FRIENDLESS, SPIRITLESS, ANEMIC, ALLERGIC TO SHELLFISH AND GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.'
That i had not seen that shelf, fondled that book, let that spine open, and turn that page. That i had not read those words. And many 'that i had not's besides', i would have been a lucky man; boring perhaps, but still lucky. Instead, it is now my duty to research these fiends, night and day, until my eyelids are cracked, my bones are weary and my half-trained cannibal, Cornish Pasty, is starting to throw worrying side glances in my direction.
But now, my research is over, my findings are complete, and i can finally rest in the bosom of normal life. Here is my lifes research, and doom:

SCROOGES MINIONS:
scientific name: joyus diminishus

Size: Up to your knee
Weight: Varies upon distribution and abundance of humans
Location: Inhabits every country on the planet earth. Resides within bed chambers, in the cavities and corners and nooks and crannies of the room.
Appearance in Sunlight: none
Appearance at night: Humanoid in appearance. Their skin is deathly grey, as though bruised from a thousands wollops. Their heads are tiny, as they have no eyes at all. Two slit like nostrils occupy the region where the eyebrows should be, and below is the stuff of nightmares; a mouth, stretched eternally wide the lips sliding inwards over gums like a crude immitation of an old man without his false teeth. And long, long, fingers.
Occupation: They come at night. They come silently. They caress your throat, your hair, your closed eyelids. And drain the Christmas spirit out of you.

Beware, my friends, beware. And for pity's sake, do not let their vile hands grope towards that thrum of life at Christmas!