The Gin archives: A Christmas special

You know what? I actually enjoy writing. The only problem I had was how boring Gin wanted my notes to be. Where’s the engagement with the readers? Where’s the flexibility of not caring for quality or accuracy? I’ll write because I want to. I got time now too, since I can’t participate in the battle.

'What will I be writing about?' you may ask. Well, I had this idea for a while now, but I reckon that, if Gin ever makes it big, people will want to know about his backstory. What better way than for me to tell of all his little secrets and history I’ve had with him? Since December was a month ago, I’ll start with a little Christmas story. Don’t know what Christmas is? I’m just as confused as you are. Ask Gin for more details.

The story happens thirty years ago. I was staring at a small tree, roughly my height. It was green. It was prickly. It was in the house for some reason. It was always a one-off thing as well. Every December, Gen would bring it in, decorate it with some spheres and leave it there until the 25th is over. Every. Single. Year. Here’s a little dialogue I had:

‘What’s the point, Gen?’ I once asked. (Oh. I forgot to mention this but Gen is Gin’s dad.)

‘Tradition,’ he responded.

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‘Tradition?’

‘Yeah. My father did it, and so did his and so on.’

‘But why?’

‘I honestly don’t know. Apparently a baby was born in a pig sty a long time ago. As a result Santa, some big fat dude in a red suit, comes and gives presents. The meaning behind celebrating Christmas has been lost in history by now.’

‘The big fat man with a red suit never comes though.’

‘Well, yeah. It’s actually me who buys the presents, not Santa.’

‘Santa’s doesn’t visit us?’ a squeaky voice called out.

Gen and I turned around. Standing at the doorway was a three-year-old Gin, holding a plate of cookies. Elizabeth (Gin’s mum) made them, then Jacob (Gin’s brother) and Gin would gleefully leave them on a table for ‘Santa’. In the end, Gen and I were the ones who ate them every year. They were a-mazing and I would love to have them again. Unfortunately, Gin is an awful cook and can’t recreate the heavenly goodness that was Liz’s cookies.

But anyway, I looked at Gin. His eyes were full of confusion. His delusions were being shattered. All it would take was one more sentence to tip him overboard. I looked back at Gen, who gave me a don’t-you-dare stare. I gave him a grin in return. I turned back to Gin.

‘No. That’s not the case, little Gigi,’ I said, pausing and allowing Gen to breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Your father told me the truth. Santa never existed in the first place.’

‘You son of a bitch!’ Gen exclaimed.

‘Mummy! Big Bro! Daddy said Santa isn’t real!’ little baby Gin cried, running off to wherever Liz or Jacob were.

‘But I didn’t do anyth– ugh. I’ll get you for this, Wontiferus,’ Gen said as he ran after Gin.

Annoying the Gale family was, and still is, such an enjoyable pastime.

-Wontiferus Poxim