What’s this? An early Christmas present?! How thoughtful! Is it a bicycle? Or a drone? Or that generic deodorant, aftershave & moisturiser trifecta? Nope. It’s a huge lump of Christmas Covid coal. A perhaps fitting cherry on top of a year that’s been far from trifling; a government announcement that takes the cake. How naive I had been to expect anything other than a Covid-tier torpedo sinking my personal Christmas ship before it’s even left the dry dock.
I expect that there’ll soon enough be reports of the latest pathetic Westminster hypocrite(s) to break their own rules, with some equally half-arsed excuse much like those before. Perhaps some were amongst those crammed onto every bus, train, vespa, horse and rickshaw leaving London on Saturday evening.
It’s inevitable that the hordes Indiana Jones-ing under the closing Tier 4 door will bring the Lurpak spreadable edition of Covid to the surrounding counties. The third iteration of the SARS Wars saga (Lockdown 3; Return of the Covid) is now due for release in early January 2021. Sigh.
Unsurprisingly the rest of the world doesn’t fancy our home brew strain, and has raised the drawbridge. At least the constriction of flow to/from the Continent is a good preview of the chaos that seems likely to unfold after the UK leaves the EU. In less than a fortnight. More sigh.
But enough grumbling, humbugging and sounding like a Grinch/Scrooge lovechild. Christmas will still happen. 2020 will still end. The current FTSE dip is irrelevant in the long term. The stringent impingement on my social activities just adds fuel to the FIRE. Indeed, I’ve put my remaining creative energies into a festive FI blogger poem. Enjoy!
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a blogger was typing, nor moving their mouse;
The Ninja all nestled in his Ikea bed,
Dreams of a smorgasbord filling his head;
Ad Otium hung baubles all over the tree,
Getting help with the angel from Sparkle Bee;
Weenie put out Santa’s cookies herself,
And also positioned the elf on the shelf;
The Ermine hung stockings, hoping to get
A visit from Santa down in Somerset;
Finumus prepared a banquet to eat,
A delectable meal, a gluttonous treat;
There was turkey and stuffing and sprouts for consumption,
Pigs wrapped in blankets by Fire V London;
Dr FIRE sang carols with Indeedably,
A Way to Less joined in harmoniously;
Adding a descant to the melodious three,
None other than Ken, of the Humble Penny;
GFF wrapped presents, all night and all day,
While cards were written by Kieran MacRae;
The Shrink, the Banker and Hustle Escape
Sipped mulled wine ’round Tuppeny’s Fireplace;
The three ghosts of Christmas floated by the door;
The Details Man, Investor and Accumulator.
And nobody spoke of bonds nor equities,
Of funds or investments or properties.
Not a whisper was heard of net worth, nor of wealth,
As they laughed and toasted each other’s good health;
Remembering what brings their lives quality,
Not seven figures, nor retiring early;
But friends and family, fond memories,
Embracing all of life’s frivolities;
In a year of such dismay the message is clear,
Prioritise life and those you hold dear.
Financial independence? That’s by the by.
Happy holidays all, Mr MedFI.