And since this year has reached the Immaculate, here again we have made that gesture as a child we loved so much and now has become a torment: the tree! But do not bad luck, we say it out loud at Christmas una casa senza l’albero è una tristezza infinita. E quindi abbiamo arraffato una scala, siamo saliti sul palchettone per tirare giù quei due pezzi di rayon verde smeraldo per montarlo in salotto, vicino a una finestra (così da fuori chi guarda dalla strada rosica che io ho fatto l’albero e tu no) piegandosi sulle ginocchia per salvaguardare l’ernia (L5-S1). Ma quando ci si ritrova con quei bracci di fil di ferro ricoperti di muschio finto a rifare quei gesti al contrario di appena un anno fa (era il 7 gennaio), si pensa all’utilità della cosa. Il pensiero vola via alle implicazioni annuali di ogni Natale: “i regali, oddìo, quello alla suocera: il caffè, come mai a un certo punto della vita alle mother in law gives it the coffee? Perhaps in the hope that we remain on a cup, because of pressure? But then the funeral looks heavy:-if not give them, maybe today was still here. " The gifts of grandchildren, he does not like anything, like a little game you already have it, by force, by downloading from the internet, then give him a computer, but I know that 'the father? We thought the father, no? Gifts to children, according to a bell'assegno me and see how they are happy, but it is cold, impersonal, if you shoot those on holiday in Sharm, but now there are sharks, then good on iTunes, so you download a movie and if he sees it, the limit a book that title? "War and Peace" but if you are still reading "The children of the Via Paal." That pizza ... but once it was Christmas, my Christmas as a child? ". In short, these are the thoughts and rimonti tree. But suddenly in your hypothalamus is heard a strange cracking sound, a door with an ugly rusty bolt creak open foreboding. But throw a glance of curiosity: who's in there? It is your father, he is young, speaks softly to your mother, "SCCT! Make-up if not they hear us. " Your mother, holding a scale and he slowly rises to fetch the palchettone on a super 8 projector, you asked who happens to own a gift to Santa Claus, and a doll for your sister. You are small and still do not know, but you're going to be great pain and perhaps with a pride that will never in your life. Through the keyhole of your bedroom you saw it all! You turn to your sister and say, "What, did you ask Santa Claus for a doll?". She said, 'Yes, I wrote the letter. " And thou, triumphant, will you answer to, just remember when it is stopped today, forty years later, as you see your nephew bent over plastic tree while one hears you screaming and crying through her tears a phrase: " Santa Claus does not exist. "
PS: the picture, as had not happened time, has nothing to do ...
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