A Christmas Carol: Two Years On...

It's that time of year again! But before the joys of December get underway, I'd like to pause in contemplation. For it has been...

Two years.

Two years since star of the show Callum Jeffrey did the cheesy, cringe-mongering Fezziwig accent.
Two years since people were stupid enough to pick apart and eat the disgusting poisoned chicken.
Two years since Ignorance forgot all about his entrance and Lauren Girling was left gesticulating wildly at a patch of thin air.
Two years since Lauren managed the somewhat amazing feat of pushing me up a short flight of stairs.
Two years since I sported that unbelievably lavish red-and-blue silk dressing gown that so reminded me of Henry Hull's in Werewolf of London (1935).
Two years since I crumpled up under the weight of that ill-fitting top hat.
Two years since one James Davies sat in the audience mugging with vigour to put everyone off.
Two years since the makeshift bed fell over again... and again... and again...
Two years since Chris Guard starred in the showy role of Fred, and most certainly not Bob Cratchit (thank you, Mr. Crosby).
Two years since Cameron Reid overacted outrageously, not that we'd want it any other way...
Two years since dear Callum starred as the Ghost of Furniture Yet to Come, sporting the now-classic "deer in the headlights" expression when the lights flared unexpectedly up.
Two years since Will Parker was forced to wear a black shroud about a foot too short for him.
Two years since James Simpson, husband in debt, was cut from the show for being too quiet - sorry, Simmers!
Two years since Chris, the Cameron Mackintosh of Manor School, directed and produced the entire play (along with some minor interference from Mr. Crisp).
Two years since nobody, nobody, nobody liked me.
Two years since Joseph Abell, brave and bold, bailed out at the prospect of kissing a girl.
Two years since the ridiculously sumptuous costumes bankrupted the Performing Arts Department for the next five years, culminating with the Return to the Forbidden Planet fiasco.
Two years since the candle nearly fell over and (heaven forfend!) burned the entire school down.
Two years since our toneless singing of beloved Christmas carols, the Sweeney Todd chorus line gone wrong.
Two years since yet more outrageous overacting!
Two years since I earned the right to hurl imaginary rulers at the sick children from the poor hospital.
Two years since Mr. Crisp spray-painted some of Her Majesty's currency a vivid gold and found life imprisonment his fair reward.
Two years since the Minister's Cat was an agreeable, buoyant, charming, delightful, effervescent, fortuitous, gleeful, hilarious, intellectual, joyous, knockout, languid, marvellous, nihilistic, outrageous, pugnacious, quintessential, righteous, stupendous, tenacious, ultimate, voracious, wonderful, xylophone, yellow-bellied, zipadeedoodah cat!
Two years since Mrs. Grace had no involvement whatsoever.
Two years since our high-profile, much-anticipated transfer to York Minster.
Two years since our high-profile, much-anticipated transfer closed in one night, unsuccessful and forgotten.
Two years since I had the privilege of following in the footsteps of Basil Rathbone, Alastair Sim, Patrick Stewart and Simon Callow.
Two years since my name topped the cast list for the first and last time.
Two years since the play's very memory was consigned to the scrap heap.
Two years since I determined to keep this marvellous production's memory alive!

Two years since that Christmas spirit pervaded our lives once more.

Two years. Two glorious years.

Merry Christmas, everyone!