As I lay on my bed a few nights ago, I thought I should write something for Christmas. But I’m not really sure exactly on what.
Burrowing under my quilt, I thought maybe I should write about how it’s always so rainy, so much so that my garden always got waterlogged, and how, as a child, my brother used to coax me to play with him in the gooey slimy mud, and how we were reprimanded when we went in, covered in sludge, at dusk for dinner.
Or perhaps I might write about how my parents used to save their hard-earned money from their teachers’ salaries to take us down to Singapore almost every year at Christmas time. We used to get to choose one toy, and the decision was a painful delight, and the anticipation of the toy – on the trip home, and through to Christmas day – was such pleasurable torment! Yet, the memory of that one toy each Christmas from Singapore, in hindsight, is probably one of the greatest treasures we have received.
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