Here we go again. Christmas cards have started trickling in, and with them, the annual holiday ritual: figuring out who “John” is.
You know the one. Every year, without fail, a card appears in my mailbox, signed simply as “John.”
No last name, no return address. Just “Merry Christmas – John.”
Now, I know several Johns.
There’s my cousin John, my old school mate John, the John from Pilates who swears he’s a Scorpio but absolutely gives off Virgo energy.
And yet, every year, I’m stumped.
I’ve tried analysing the handwriting, leaning over the card like Sherlock Holmes with a magnifying glass. Slanted left? Flourished “J”? Could this be plumber John? But why would he send me a card?
One year, I showed the card to my partner. “Do you recognise this handwriting?” I asked, shoving it under her nose. She squinted. “Looks familiar,” she said, unhelpfully. Of course it does. It’s John!
This year, I’m convinced it’s deliberate.
Someone, somewhere, is laughing maniacally, sending me into this Yuletide identity crisis.
It’s the perfect holiday prank: just cryptic enough to drive me mad, but harmless enough to avoid suspicion.
Could this “John” be part of some underground society of card-senders? A group dedicated to perplexing people like me, who are too polite to just . . . not care?
And the worst part? I’ll still display the card proudly on the mantelpiece. Because that’s what the holidays are about, isn’t it? Spreading joy, even in mysterious, mildly frustrating forms.
So, cheers, John. Whoever you are. Wherever you are. You’ve won this round.
But next year? Next year, I’m sending out cards signed “From: Me.” Let’s see how you like it.