Twinkle twinkle little star

December is upon us once more. The month of glad tidings of comfort and joy, of giving and receiving, of nervous turkeys and brussel sprouts, of families and friends, of sparkles and decorations, of trees being brought in from the cold, of red noses and rosy cheeks. But behind all the magic and wonder, behind the red suit and the Ho Ho Ho is a suburban conflict that has raged for many years. With no end in sight, the ugly head of war will once more look above the trenches and send out a volley of power and might upon its neighbour.

I am, of course talking about the near exclusive male conflict with his neighbour.

The Battle of the Bulbs

The War of the Inflatable Snowmen

The Conflict of Comical Red Nosed Reindeers

This time of the year all across this mighty nation men are preparing to fight once more, to get one over on their neighbour, to do something bigger and better than last year, to win the latest battle. Plans have been drawn up. New improved lights have been purchased. Inflatable Santas are at the ready. Man takes the preparation and planning for illuminating the family home at Christmas as seriously as woman takes planning and preparing for the January sales and nothing will get in his way.
In every suburb, in your very neighbourhood the fuse is lit and the fallout will be tremendous. This is a war with so many casualties; nobody can escape its grasp. For some of the more fortunate ones heavy curtains will be the main defensive weapon, but for others, for those married to a front line officer escape is nigh on impossible. Children will be called up to duty, to hold ladders steady, to check bulbs and detangle lighting nets.

Every available wall socket will have extension leads running from it and further extension leads plugged into them, the pressure put on your household electrical wiring will be overbearing. You will experience power surges and dips, blown fuses and electrical fires, for those on the front line of the battle entire streets could lose power as the twinkly fairy lights purchased for the tree in the front garden purge every available watt in the neighbourhood.

A&E wards across the land will be filled with injuries from falling off roof tops to electrocution. Planes will have flight paths altered to avoid confusion and landing in the back garden of old Mrs Crewit at number 23.

And when all is said and done, when every last twinkly fairy light is in place man will stand triumphant on the battlefield and admire his victory, a tear of jubilant victory will roll down his reddened cheek. Family and friends will be forced to behold his proud achievements. Marvel at the new Santa’s Grotto with nodding Reindeer, laugh at the humorous landing lights across the roof and stand in awe of the realism brought to the whole panorama by the fake snow.

Man will stand shoulder to shoulder with the enemy and congratulate one another on a battle well fought, all the time thinking what he can do next year to beat him.
Man will not cease until his house can be observed from space, until it is listed as a wonder of the world or at the very least it makes the local news station.


To those of you undergoing the hell of war I doff my cap to you. War, in this case, is pretty.