Apparently Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat (big old goosey porker – he’s being dispatched to Weight Watchers first thing in the New Year). The working year is drawing to a close and as usual, the last week is dragging by like a snoozing grizzly on an Evostick sled. Is it only me that finds the last working week pre-Christmas a complete waste of time?
I am sitting here busily working out excuses for avoiding the “Outer Office” Christmas do tomorrow. They’re going to the Playboy Club. In God’s name why would I want to go there? Unless it was their intention to play “Whack a Bunny” complete with huge rubber sledge hammers or “Pin the Flick-Knife on the Bunny” then honestly, the experience leaves me less than thrilled. Of course, the Outer Office is 99% male, hence the venue choice. The only other female in the Outer Office has a cough similar to a crack-smoking homeless man and is currently eating something packed with Echinacea and Peruvian mouse droppings to try to cure herself before tomorrow’s party. It smells like rancid Chilli Con Dog Poo. Frankly, I’m just not up for any of this. I feel a stomach flu coming on that will render me unable to attend. Sorry Bunnies!
The trouble is, I am just not feeling festive. I’m not miserable, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not feeling….Christmassy. This is so not like me – I practically AM Mariah Carey in a too-short Santa outfit warbling for all I’m worth as people cover their ears and weep silently. I’m not sure if it is the internet Christmas shopping I did as opposed to the usual racing around the streets style. Has the disengagement left me feeling a little….disinterested… to be honest? Could it simply be that the kids aren’t little any more and buying for them is a) supremely expensive, b) technology or fashion-based – ugh! or c) no fun now that “The Myth” has been dispelled. It just seems like another job to have to do – all the jolly jingles and George Michael replays in the world are not lifting me into my usual Christmas mode. Nothing was helped by the Man-Hog being a complete plank and using our joint account debit card to buy my presents. Internet banking reveals all – I now know precisely what is under the tree, where it came from and how much it cost. There are no surprises to be had except, possibly, me running away to become a Playboy Bunny on Christmas Eve just for shits and giggles.
Is it just that the usual trials and tribulations of life have not yet suspended normal service? The unseasonally stormy weather has wreaked havoc with Crumbly Mansion, for example. The roof is leaking in a running total of five places so far. The new roof. The one that cost us thousands to replace just over a year ago. That one. The wind has also managed to seek out any tiny pinprick in the ancient windowframes and send gushing torrents of water into them. We fall asleep to the dulcet sound of plips and plops splopping into strategically placed plastic cups. Like a half-arsed glass harp. So tempted to empty them into the Man-Hog’s vibrating Snore-Chasm but then I remember I am supposed to be in love with him. This holds me back – just. This morning, Mini-Pig announced he has managed to lose his entire PE kit two days before the end of term – grrr! Not a small loss – we are talking the entire contents: astro boots, rugby shirt, shorts, socks, the lot. A mere £100 or so to replace. He’ll be cleaning chimneys and taking out the rubbish for the next fifty years to pay that lot off, the little blighter.
The Texan boss tried to enthuse me with his alternative Christmas do involving steak with green butter sauce followed by a theatre trip. The play, the 24,606 performance of The Mousetrap, was actually great and the acting was fantastic. However, having pre-filled his useless cowboy tum before the performance, the Texan proceeded to snooze his way through it, complete with head-bobbing and the odd “What?” at the top of his voice as I elbowed him continuously in the ribs. Great! Either I’m the most boring companion since Eastenders’ Ian Beale or too many years working together has bred the sort of comfort level that indicates that I would think slumping into an afternoon zed is perfectly all right and not at all rude!
But, dear friends, all is not lost. There are ten days to go and work finishes tomorrow. Next week I shall begin to wrap said internet presents as well as gaudy tinsel around various bits of my body. I will drape twinkly lights from the soon-to-be-released-from-school Mini-Pigs and attach baubles to anything that sticks out horizontally on the Man-Hog. Wine will be mulled, pies will be minced and with any luck, the famously irritating Stratton Christmas spirit will wake from its slumber and get on everyone’s wick. Because all I want for Christmas……..is me. Enjoying it again.
Watch this space. x