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Old English Sheepdog Christmas Ornament Hanging Gift Box

A wonderful surprise Green and Gold Striped Gift Box ornament accented with a Red Bow on top. Great tree trimmer or present for that special dog lover! Hand painted stone resin and boxed.

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With my current status as Kept Man, I was able to sleep in on Christmas morning, partake in gift giving and receiving and massive food consumption. It was a nice change of pace when compared to the wondrous days of yore. Last year, I woke up at around 5:00am to ensure punctuality for a 7:00am shift at the Four Seasons. After commandeering a wee cup of coffee (several) from the lobby set-up, I set about readying myself for the day of good cheer. That is to say, I had to steel myself for the coming insults and condescending attitudes of unhappy guests.

Merry F-ing Christmas to you, too.

Nuala and I flew easyJet from Marrakech to London Gatwick. Having spent the last two or three days searching each alleyway, crevice and bureau de change for spare Euro or Pound Sterling, we were finally set to embark on our first trip back to an English-speaking nation. The Western world, in my ignorant view. Our trip to Spain, which I have yet to complete entry into the Chronicles due to prescient memory constraints, though technically a trip into the “West” it didn’t feel that way. I continued to have communication difficulties. The highly frustrating kind.

Imagine being a go-getter, of sorts. Someone who knows what they want and without the fear to ask for it (my better half would likely break down in a fit convulsions and tears if I forced her to ask a stranger for sugar in her wee tea). Now, imagine cutting that person’s tongue out. This is how I felt in France, how I feel in our adopted home of Morocco, and how I felt upon arrival to Andalucia. Granted, I studied Spanish for three years in high school. With two relatively worthless Spanish teachers, one of whom cared more deeply about being a crazy homophobe whose tests were “heavy like a Chevy” for which we would be “hurtin’ for certain” if we didn’t study because we would get a bad grade, but alas, “that’s how the cookie crumbles.” Such inane phrases as “Se llama Pablo. Pablo quiere ir a la pelicula hoy,” doesn’t really cover the day to day conversations while traveling.

England. London, specifically. A land of tyrant kings, young wartime queens, stern, no nonsense, manly, and ballsy prime ministers, and Churchill. Maggie Thatcher really was a handsome woman. Anyway…

With our legal sum of Euro stuffed away in random pockets, in the soles of our shoes, and no less than 1,000€ neatly tucked against my taint (apologies to the recipient of that 50€ note at the airport…) we made it through customs, passport control, security, easyJet baggage size limitations and Moroccan weather without a hitch.

There was a storm that swept through London just days before our arrival so the snow still blanketed the fields. Our flight departed Marrakech on time though our arrival was delayed due to the air traffic controllers sending our plane through a series of maneuvers around Gatwick, presumably to ensure our pilots weren’t on their laptops playing Warcraft or updating their Facebook statuses. That was fantastic, really, as even the 15 to 20 minute delay meant it was that much darker in the early afternoon by the time we got through the airport.

We made it to the train station where a middle-aged, middle-weight Indian woman was of negligible assistance when she essentially sold us two day-passes (£16 ea) at 4:30pm and told us to “get on any train.” Great. We should just get on any train and that will take us directly to the northwest of London.

We had a delightful half-hour of aimless wondering around Victoria station, the terminus of the particular train we randomly chose to board. Our eyes searching the departures boards in vain, shoulders pulling out of sockets from carrying the heavy luggage, Nuala gathered the courage and intestinal fortitude to ask for directions while I dealt with the luggage.

“Oh, we just need to take the tube? That’s it? Okay…”

We finally made it to Neasden, in the shadow of Wembly stadium, the home of our host family the O’Malleys.