Hartley Neita I asked (please, kindly).
I urged (a-beg you).
I prayed (Oh Lord!)
I DID all these, and more, but have so far failed to persuade anyone in authority to postpone Christmas.
Within 24 hours of making my first appeal three weeks ago, I began hearing Christmas carols on the radio stations. Except on Wilmot Perkins' programme!
Then everybody I telephoned answered with slogans such as "Season's Greetings" and "Wishing a Merry Christmas". And one by one, the shopping plazas began decorating their parking areas and shelves with yards and yards of Christmas lights and pretty paper.
SANTA CLAUS ON A LAWN
Two Saturdays ago, while driving through Barbican in St. Andrew, I saw a huge statue of Santa Claus on a lawn, dressed, and not nude as is its counterpart in Emancipation Park. Then the Emancipation Park organisers announced evening concerts on its stage, with choirs singing O Holy Night and White Christmas.
Even The Gleaner got into the festive spirit. I visited the office to find coloured paper tassle lining the walls. There was I believing that the Editor would have supported my plea and used the money spent on these decorations to give this columnist an end-of-year bonus. Note, I did not say 'Christmas bonus'.
Of course, you cannot beat the ingenuity of the Jamaican farmers. In this age of globalisation when Jamaica is competing with foreign producers, I discovered that the men who grow Christmas trees in the Blue Mountains, trim and shape them (like the artificial trees we now import), before sending them for sale on the sidewalks of Constant Spring Road.
They did not ask the Minister of Finance to place a high import duty on the foreign trees and seek support from the Jamaica Agricultural Society and the Jamaica Manufacturers Association for their representation. No, they decided to show that they could offer consumers trees as nice as anything members of the Jamaica Chamber of Commerce can import.
Christmas has also invaded the sanctity of my home. This week, the usual letters from the Postman and Public Cleansing Operators were placed in my letter box. Over the next few days, too, I expect to be visited by everyone who has done the smallest service for me during the past year.
So, what should I do. Christmas is not like the train which Bobby Pickersgill has been promising to return to us every year. In four days we will wake to the pealing of church bells. In four days we will be tearing open gift packages from daddy and mummy, from brother and sister, and from son and daughter to parents. In four days we will be harking the angels and greeting neighbours as did the shepherds of 2,000 years ago, even though we have no sheep to flock.
Well now, since no one will postpone Christmas I have decided to offer it for sale to the lowest bidder in an auction.
And then I can laugh and sing: "Going, going, gone!"
