Boxing Day Sales and Sirs
To the Editor,
As the glitter of Christmas settles and the chaos of the Boxing Day sales descends like an overly enthusiastic pigeon at a bread feast, I find myself in a peculiar state of anticipation and bewilderment. For alongside the news that shoppers are stampeding through high streets in search of half-price air fryers, I am also grappling with the rather extraordinary (and, frankly, unconfirmed) idea that I may be about to receive a Knighthood in the New Year’s Honours List.
The sales, of course, are a spectacle of their own. I ventured out this morning—purely for research purposes, you understand — and witnessed scenes that could only be described as medieval jousting, albeit with people armed not with lances but with discounted televisions. One gentleman in a reindeer jumper was clutching a bargain toaster as if it were the Holy Grail, while another attempted to wrestle a multipack of scented candles from a lady who looked prepared to fight to the death.
Amidst this retail carnage, my thoughts turned to my alleged impending Knighthood. How, I wondered, would Sir Me approach a Boxing Day sale? Would I be required to shop in full regalia, clanking through the aisles in chainmail and spurs, my sword slicing open shrink-wrapped socks? Or would the Knighthood grant me immunity from the chaos entirely, perhaps with a special Sir Only lane at the checkout?
Of course, it’s entirely possible there has been a misunderstanding. My inclusion in the Honours List is, as yet, unconfirmed by anyone official, including King Charles. The notion arose after my Aunt Mildred mentioned — over a particularly boozy Christmas pudding — that I was "due for some recognition" for my role in organising the village raffle back in 2007. Naturally, I assumed she had insider knowledge of the Palace’s workings, although it’s equally possible she was confusing me with Sir David Attenborough.
The question remains: should I prepare a speech? Is it appropriate to wear a suit of armour to a knighting ceremony? And, crucially, how do I manage the conflict between my potential new title and my deep-seated desire to snag a discounted waffle maker?
For now, I shall adopt a position of cautious optimism. Should the Knighthood materialise, I will humbly accept it, possibly in the queue at Argos. If it does not, I shall console myself with the knowledge that I am still a champion of the Boxing Day spirit, having emerged victorious with a slightly dented gravy boat and a three-for-two deal on novelty slippers.
Yours, in a state of festive anticipation and retail-induced confusion,
(Potentially Sir) Reginald Flapthorpe
(Likely Knight of the Discount Aisle)