Flying the Coop.

Something happens in the heart of every bird when December bursts above the craggy peaks of dumb endeavour. Wilted wings are exchanged for highflying flippers. The top of the tree is no longer high enough. For at Christmas tide time is untied, the spirit flies the coop and the mind is jacked up for repairs. It's a pity that every day isn't Christmas Day, but it's good in the silly season to give the subordinated ego an airing and to hang out the page 63 spiritual underclothes to dry on the line of least resistance. It is good to make a raid on the strong-room of the guarded emotions with the blow-lamp of abandon and the jemmy of jubilation.