Finished scripting out "A Child's Christmas in Wales" by Dylan Thomas. I'd forgotten all about this little wonder. I found it in a great resource of Christmas stories and poems at (duh) Christmas Stories.Com. I don't know if we can do it, because it does run long, but I'm really pushing for it.
It seems that fewer and fewer people are holding out against the oncoming pre-Thanksgiving Christmas tide. By next year, we'll be skipping the whole Thanksgiving thing and just heading straight into Holly Ho Ho.
I have called them the Hellidays for years now. I feel justified.
I dreamed last night in long and complicated ways concerning an Amsterdam that doesn't exist, hiding things that I never saw anyway, women in burkas and a strangely quiet shootout between me and the guy who'd been chasing me all dream long. We were using shotguns, requiring a pause between each shot. I took two in the stomach, which didn't hurt and didn't bleed but were obviously not a good thing. I shot Mr. Enemy Guy in the neck and chest, but he didn't die. Paramedics took him away somewhere, and I ended up on an airplane, flying to where I didn't know but I was hoping there was a stop at a hospital planned. This is where the women in burkas showed up. I woke up VERY late, wondering if I had bee-bee's in my stomach. It actually took a few moments to determine that the reason I wasn't in searing pain was because I hadn't really been shot.
Not being shot. That's a good thing.