because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Friday, 26 December 2008

The Grinch and All His Friends.


Genuinely, my favourite bit of this whole Christmas thing is the giving, as it has become glaring obviously in the (purely alleged) transcendence into my 'adult' years quite necessary that I have to take part in the over-commercialised, over-hyped, over-pressured and not to mention over-stuffed, over-indulged, and over-meaty for a veggie like myself celebration of the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ, as The Boyfriend in particular will have nothing to do with me if I don't at least force a grimace like I mean it.

Ironic then, that he would be 300 miles away on the Big Day and therefore not even within spitting distance of a gritted-teeth 5am Christmas wake-up call. "Laura, I've brought you a drink," Papa whispered to me in the darkness of Christmas morn. "You were coughing in your sleep". "Mmmmmm.....?" "Drink it whilst it is hot, ducky, won't you?" "Mmmmmmmm". (Cue head hitting pillow in dramatic fashion and loud omittance of snoring sounds not unlike the calling of soldiers to arms by a French general with a chest infection and a mouth full of garlic cloves).

Had it been a more reasonably timed Christmas wake-up call, for example let's say noon after a Christmas Eve on the Bailey's, I probably would have had enough wakefulness about me to suggest that perhaps next time Pops should let coughing daughters lie, rather than rouse them when Santa is still en route and thus forcing his 'beloved' (liar!) into a wide-awake coughing fit complete with retching from the belly and a shower of spittle on the chin, when she was actually quite happy to rest in peaceful slumber herself whilst only waking the rest of the house. I mean really, how selfish can you get?

Don't get me wrong though, The Boyfriend and I were in contact throughout the endurance test that is Christmas Day. I believe our first telephone call went along the lines of; "So are you having a good day?" "Yeah". "Get anything nice?" "Yeah". "Well I am full of Christmas cheer- well, Champagne anyway! Ha ha ha" "Yeah". "You sound quite busy- shall I just leave you to enjoy your day then?" "Yeah". "Right then. Well... have a good one".

That didn't even elicit a response, the sarcastic beggar. I may or may not have concluded with a Grinch-like reference to how every Christmas is the same so surely he could use our first Christmas day conversation from six years ago as a reference point for how every successive one might go?

I can see the error of my ways with the clear hindsight of Boxing Day. I should just never have picked up the phone in the first instance. I might even spend next year's Christmas Day with him, as punishment. That'd teach him and his merriment.

I can do Christmas in theory. The run up, especially working in the toyshop, sends me into a crazed gingerbread house building, public carol singing, manically festive, snowman earring wearing Christmas champion. And then the actual day comes around and I am filled with loathing for all of its pressure to be having a really, really lovely time and having to share my mum with anyone but my brother. Dad isn't an issue for sharing because the attention he pays his turkey is rivaled only by the desire I have to biff anyone in red velvet on the hooter.

New Year's Eve, though, is an entirely different matter. That... oh... that is an absolute joy. Last year, I went to the Co-Op and brought myself some party food- prawns and marie-rose sauce, and chocolate fingers and a trifle- and went to bed at nine pm. It was brilliant. I didn't have to be polite with myself, "Please, Laura, I must insist you have the last iced party ring, I really must". "Oh no, Laura, I couldn't possibly, please- you have it. I couldn't bear to deprive you of it." "Oh no, no, no. It was your turn for televisual viewing choice so it is only fair that you have the last party ring. Besides, I've got my eye on the cheese snips". Nope- it was my way or no way. And that is just the way I like it.
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