Tis, indeed, the season to be merry. You can see it by the huge wads of supermarket specials that come with the newspapers.
So thick are they, in fact, I thought the Sunday Times had arrived a bit early, until I realised it was the local free rag bulging with the ubiquitous inserts. I am happy to report that polony is a total giveaway at 25% off.
Then there are the rubbish removal men. Isn't it funny how for 11 months you cannot find these guys at all? I remember that once, when there was no hint of labour trouble in Johannesburg, my rubbish bins were not collected at all. For weeks.
But you know it is the season to be merry when suddenly there is a surplus of the men in blue overalls. But it is not rubbish they are collecting.
The bell rings for the 27th time. It is Saturday at 7 pm. I am salivating at the thought of my lovely wife's low-carb steak and salad, due on the Malala family table in 30 minutes.
"Christmas, sir!"
"And a merry Christmas to you, too!" I retort.
"Christmas box, sir!" he replies, annoyed.
"Oh, we have already given to one of your colleagues. He came earlier today."
"He was the wrong one. I have a badge and ID. Come and see it," he persists.
Now, this is a tricky one. At the stove my lovely wife is making guillotine signs with her hands, indicating that the conversation should come to an end. The council has sent out a circular stating no gifts should be handed out to people claiming to be council employees. She believes in the rule of law. On the other hand, it breaks my heart to turn a real garbage man away.
"Come see my badge, sir! My name is Samuel!" the voice on the intercom breaks into my indecision.
This is the killer punch. The one guy who always gave to the poor at Christmas where I grew up in Hammanskraal was our neighbour, Samuel Masombuka. So I bung him R20.
Tis the season to be merry, indeed. You can see it by the taxi loads of 16-year-olds arriving at public parks, playing kwaito loudly and showing off complicated dance moves. As an older person, you know it is the season to be merry when you complain about the noise, about how they should respect the rights of old fogeys like yourself and how the country is going to the dogs.
I know this type of killjoy well. Alas, I am one of them. There is nothing that makes me realise how much I enjoy Christmas more than the idea that I can complain endlessly about how young people, rich people, nouveaux riches and others do not know how to enjoy this season.
I love Christmas because it means we will all be in the gym on January 2, looking distinctly bloated and sheepish. The gyms will be empty on January 15 without fail.
What I love most about Christmas is the lunch. I remember as a kid how it was the most important thing ever - second only to the New Year's lunch. It started at the crack of dawn.
If my father did not bring home a massive turkey, my brother would buy two live chickens. Back home he would slaughter them and the job of plucking them would fall to us younger and faint-hearted folk.
My mother and sisters would be peeling potatoes, boiling potatoes, washing beetroot, slicing beetroot, slicing cabbages, dicing . . . There was no mother in the small village of New Eersterus who would not be peeling potatoes.
This industry would occasionally be interrupted by the arrival of a drunk stranger. "Happy!" he would shout. My mum would give him ginger beer and homemade biscuits. Peace to all men and drunks.
At around 11 am the sweet smell of roast turkey or chicken would envelop the village. There is nothing like this smell - it makes you want to eat.
We would all be dispatched to the bathtub. The food would be set out on the table when we emerged, all scrubbed and in our starchy new "Christmas clothes". We would all rush forward keenly.
"Not so fast," my mother would say. "Let us remember those who are not as lucky as we are."
Afterwards, we would visit our neighbours, the Masombukas. Until he lost his job in the early 1990s, Samuel Masombuka would give vegetables and fruit to the poor every Christmas. He died last week after a long illness.
May you all have a Samuel Masombuka Christmas - full of peace and giving.
