Is it this dancing juice?

Life is like Christmas caroling, if you care to minus the chilly air, falling snow and jolly atmosphere.

It tugs and nips at us through the chapters the way the thrill of the season sweeps the carolers from door to door, or in my case, station to station; at times an inevitable responsibility, at others, an act of courage.

You would never know what awaits you as the boat docks; whether the audience would embrace your merry tunes with whooping cheers and hearty applause or with eww-you-freaks sideway glances and arched eyebrows that make you question your bravery.

If there is anything I have learnt in these 48 hours of caroling, which comes in an incredibly huge nutshell of singing, dancing, photo-taking when the brats kids request, hollering greetings between stations, and weird sorts of merry-making, it would be that. We spend our lifetime caroling, all the while hoping that the next house we knock on would treat us well.