by Gill Sims
What option did I have but to drink through this relentless barrage about the astonishing achievements of little Gabriel and Celeste? And drink. And drink …
And anyway, mistaking the live band afterwards for karaoke and demanding to sing ‘Eternal Flame’ is an error that anyone can make, and if anything, my very enthusiastic dancing was a compliment to them.
I also wasn’t to know that the very nice man I met at the bar and decided was my new best friend was Simon’s boss, but in my defence the flaming Sambucas were his idea, not mine! As were the second and third rounds. And we totally bonded and therefore this was definitely not a career-limiting event for Simon.
AND I wasn’t sick in the taxi on the way home, I just kept demanding chips. And a kebab.
Once in bed, I very much wished the room would stop spinning round. And then I had a sudden thought! The email about Drinky Mummy app might be in my junk folder. Where was my phone? Where was my bag? Where were my shoes? I followed the trail of devastation … there was my dress on the landing, and a shoe on the stairs. Another shoe, and hurray, my bag! And phone! And YES! The app had been accepted! Oh frabjous day! At that point, having a very quick celebratory nap on the stairs seemed like an excellent plan.
Sunday, 13 December
Eurgh. I was woken up on the stairs this morning by Peter and Jane climbing over me to get to the TV. They looked at me with disgust. At least I had somehow managed to put my pyjamas on last night and wasn’t sprawled there stark naked. Simon is unimpressed with me and keeps asking what exactly I said to his boss, who apparently isn’t the very lovely man he seemed to be last night. I would tell Simon what I had said if I could remember, I really would; I do recall being extremely witty and charming, but can’t quite put my finger on the nuances of the conversation. I do seem to have some vague memory of showing someone a lot of photos of my dog, but I have feeling that was Boring Soozie, in revenge for having to sit through an endless slideshow of her frankly rather ugly children. I don’t know what Simon is worrying about, as I recall his boss and I got on like a house on fire. Or rather a Sambuca on fire. Oh God, I think I’m still drunk!
The dog could not look more disgusted with me if he tried. I looked pitifully at him and whispered ‘Please don’t judge me!’, but he just snorted disapprovingly.
Tuesday, 15 December
ARRRRGGHHHHHHHHH! I realised this morning that it is the middle of December already. How? HOW HAS THIS HAPPENED AGAIN? I have not posted Simon’s parents’ Christmas presents to France. I have not BOUGHT their presents. In fact, I have not bought any presents, and I have not written any cards, and now it is far too late to send cards to people in any Abroad place apart from France.
I did not panic, though, I approached the situation calmly and rationally. Amazon Prime is my friend. Amazon Prime will make everything okay. Everything is twice as expensive from Amazon Prime. Sod it, doesn’t matter, needs must. A small fortune later, a ludicrously over-priced cushion with a pug on it, a silk scarf and bottle of perfume are winging their way to Simon’s mum, along with more bottles of whisky and aftershave and some cufflinks for his dad. And I am never, ever, ever typing ‘Gifts for men’ into Google again, as this opened my eyes to a whole new world that, frankly, I was happy without. In no way has my life been enhanced by the knowledge that somewhere out there are vagina-shaped lollipops (not even artisan ones), ‘willy washing soap’ (with a selection of holes in a variety of sizes), and something called ‘blowjob undies’, which I couldn’t even bring myself to click on, yet a lingering part of me still wonders what exactly they are … Crotchless Y-fronts? Oh God, I need to stop thinking about this.
Next problems: lack of Christmas cards, lack of posting time, lack of any inclination whatsoever to write Christmas cards, lack of annoyingly smug achievements by family to swank about in a bastarding Round Robin unless I include ‘designed an app based on my deep and abiding hatred of humanity, but haven’t actually made any money from it’, or ‘Children only got nits three times this year. #winning’.
I refused to be daunted by the Christmas card problem, though, as I am a very clever app-designing technical person, and so I decided clearly the answer was to film an adorable video of Peter and Jane and the dog in Christmas jumpers, partaking adorably in adorable festive pursuits, which I would edit together with some cheesy Christmas music and conclude with them shouting a cheery ‘Merry Christmas, one and all!’ I could even put it on Facebook and watch it go viral, and then I would be in the Daily Mail as the Most Christmassy Person Ever and would never have to write another sodding Christmas card again! It was a genius plan. What could possibly go wrong?
Peter and Jane. Peter and Jane is what could possibly go wrong. And the wretched dog. How do I keep forgetting that my children’s primary purpose in life appears to be to thwart every hope and dream I have ever had? By the time I had managed to bribe, threaten and cajole them into their Christmas jumpers, which apparently were ‘horrible’ and ‘itchy’, and I had wrestled the dog into his Christmas jumper, and I had stopped the bleeding from where he bit me in indignation (which actually makes him more evil than the children because they only threatened to bite), it was dark, and the dog had managed to remove his Christmas jumper and shred it. This meant it was too late for the outdoor frolics I had planned for the video, but that was fine, because there were plenty of lovely indoor things they could do, like pretending to wrap presents, open advent calendars, put up decorations and make mince pies.
Instead of the shining-faced, smiling moppets of my imagination, they slouched around the house scowling. Jane attempted to sellotape Peter to the floor during the simulated present wrapping, they both demanded extra chocolates for the pretend advent calendar opening, Peter managed to smash the snow globe he was supposed to place festively on the mantelpiece, and instead of sprinkling icing sugar over the mince pies, each with an endearing smudge of flour on their freckled noses, they hurled such a cloud of icing sugar around the kitchen that I couldn’t actually see them to film them. Finally, I sat them on the sofa, both looking somewhat ghostly due to the icing sugar, although I had attempted to hoover the worst of it off them and snarled, ‘Just say Merry Christmas, one and all, and say it nicely!’
After fifteen attempts, I did not have one single shot where they both looked into the camera and spoke at the same time, let alone with the cheery cry I had envisaged. I had hoped some clever editing might yet save the day, but the result was more like an NSPCC advert than the envy-inducing festive joy I was aiming for.
I will have to send a text, with a screenshot of a donation to a homeless charity, explaining I have gone for a green and worthy option. Although in my heart I know this is a better thing to do anyway, I also know it will in no way abate the mounting rage at the pile of cards with their accompanying smug letters about how Jocasta has just passed her Grade 7 flute while climbing Kilimanjaro to raise money for orphaned kittens, and how she is really looking forward to starting school next year, and Sebastian is doing so awfully well at Some Obscure Sport, and is now the youngest person to play for the British Obscure Sport Team, and aren’t we just simply maaaarvellous?
Fucking fuck my fucking life.
Saturday, 19 December
Another Christmas party tonight. One of the mummies at school invited all the parents in the class, so after some deliberation, Sam and I decided we should risk it. I didn’t know the mother very well, she was quite new and tended towards artistic scarves and ‘worked in TV’, so I must confess there was a part of me that thought there might be famous people there. Sam said this was shallow and shameless of me.
Simon grumbled a great deal about having to go to the party, but as he failed to come up with any better excuse than ‘there will be people there’ and as I had already booked the babysitter, I insisted he came. People are already starting to think Sam is lying about being gay to cover up the fact that he is having a rip-roaring affaire with me, which, given how much I fancied Sam when I first met him, now see
ms nothing short of hilarious, but nonetheless I did not want to give the rumour mill any more grist to grind.
So poor Simon was forced out of his favourite fleece and into a respectable shirt and off we went, clutching a bottle of reasonably priced Pinot Grigio and a poinsettia (because Christmas …) from which I had carefully peeled off the red ‘reduced’ sticker while leaving the Waitrose label intact.
Our hostess, Alicia, greeted us at the door, draped in an unfeasible number of scarves. She had actually managed to achieve the impossible and was wearing even more scarves than Simon’s mum. I didn’t think anyone could ever wear more scarves than Simon’s mum. She looked unimpressed by the poinsettia and vaguely waved us through to the kitchen, murmuring something about ‘You’ll know lots of people in there.’
It quickly became apparent there was some sort of party apartheid going on, with the school people in the kitchen while the glamorous TV friends were granted the hallowed environs of the sitting room, and sofas. Perhaps Alicia was unsure if we could be trusted with soft furnishings? Even the Coven had been corralled in the kitchen with the rest of the B-list, to the immense indignation of Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Perfect Mummy, who had apparently, so Sam told me, tried to make a break for the sitting room and the Beautiful People, only to be efficiently netted by Alicia’s scarves in the hallway and shepherded back to where she belonged.
Rumours abounded that in the sitting room there was champagne and canapés from caterers, as opposed to the kitchen, where there was indifferent white wine and a baguette and some sweaty cheese. I had never seen Lucy Atkinson’s Perfect Mummy so close to tears as she knocked back tepid Chardonnay, whimpering, ‘I only wanted to see the BAFTA!’, while Fiona Montague patted her shoulder consolingly and said soothingly, ‘We will, sweetie, we’ll get there soon. It’s obvious we shouldn’t be in here.’
As the wine kicked in, a sort of truce began in the kitchen. Still smarting from the unaccustomed rejection, the Coven drew closer to the scorned rubbish mummies, and fragile bridges were built.
Fiona Montague approached me with a slightly glazed expression. ‘Y’ know, Ellen, I’ve always envied you,’ she informed me. ‘I mean, you jus’ don’ give a fuck, do you? Whatever it is, you jus’ don’ give a flying fuck! I wish I could be like that. How do you not give a fuck?’
Blimey. Fancy Fiona Montague saying ‘fuck’. Fiona Montague doesn’t even say ‘fart’, she coyly refers to farting as ‘making smells’ if the subject must be discussed at all. Fiona Montague was plastered and it appeared we were drunk bonding. I think. One can never be sure with Fiona, it was entirely possible that she was still just about to deliver her coup de grâce, off her tits on bad wine or not. But no, she had her arm around my shoulder and was saying earnestly, with tears in her eyes, ‘I really like you, Ellen. Why aren’t we better friends? You’re lovely! Lesh have shome more wine.’ I was very, very afraid.
Lucy Atkinson’s Perfect Mummy had her head on Sam’s shoulder and was slurring, ‘I mean, ish jush so hard, bein’ a mum, innit? Well, you’s not a mum, ha ha, but y’knowhaddamean, don’ you? Ish hard. I’m sho tired of it. I wanna see the BAFTA. S’not easy, ish it?’
At this point, Simon, who had nipped to the loo some time ago and had been gone so long I was starting to fear that he had become fatally entangled in Alicia’s scarves or, worse, touched the BAFTA and been stoned to death with mini Beef Wellingtons and tiny baked potatoes stuffed with caviar, reappeared, saying, ‘There you are, darling, what are you doing lurking in here? There are some people I’d like you to meet’ and off we went, walking hand in hand into the Golden Light of the sitting room, leaving behind Fiona Montague and Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Perfect Mummy slack-jawed with envy and booze.
It transpired that Simon had gone to school with Alicia’s husband Tristan (what else would he be called?) and they had fortuitously met outside the loo and fallen upon each other like the long-lost friends they were – as Simon refuses to use Facebook for the purpose it was intended, which is obviously to stalk your school and university friends in the hope that you are thinner than them, with a better life. Simon claims the only reason he is on Facebook at all is to try to gauge what sort of mood I will be in when he gets home, and to read Daily Mash articles. Anyway, Simon and Tristan’s fond recollection of the time they swapped the lithium and the magnesium in the chemistry lab and almost blew old Dr Everett’s face off, and how funny he looked without eyebrows for the rest of term, was deemed sufficient to admit us into the Land of Soft Furnishings, where it turned out there was not actually any champagne and canapés, but I did get to hold The BAFTA (surprisingly heavy).
Sam filled me in on the rest of the evening in the kitchen after I abandoned them. Lucy Atkinson’s Mummy had a fight with her husband because he suggested she might be better with a glass of water than more wine, to which she shouted, ‘STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO, YOU’RE ALWAYS TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!’ Then he left without her, at which point she had a breakdown and told Sam she thinks her husband might be gay, and Fiona Montague was sick in the flowerbeds outside Alicia’s house as her husband tried to get her into a taxi. It seems the Coven do not cope well with rejection. Or alcohol. Somehow I suspect that despite Fiona’s insistence on my being her new best friend this evening, normal service will resume on Monday.
As I got into bed, a thought came to me that we should have a party. Actually, I may have already decided we are having a party and invited everyone at Alicia’s tonight. Simon won’t mind. And it will be fun!
Sunday, 20 December
Hurrah! Tree Day today. Despite last night’s party I was not hungover at all, which suggests that the wine in the sitting room may have been of better quality than the kitchen wine, not least because I had amused texts from Sam with screenshots of awkward messages from Fiona Montague and Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Perfect Mummy proffering vague apologies along the lines of ‘having a bit too much wine’. Oh dear. I wonder how much of last night they will admit to next week?
But to the tree … In my festive vision, buying the tree should consist of us tramping through snowy streets as Simon manfully shoulders the tree and carries it home and we all laugh and frolic in his manly wake. In reality it usually involves going to B&Q and having an argument because I pick an enormous tree that won’t fit in the car and he picks a tiny tree that a mouse would be ashamed of, so minute and unfestive is it.
This year, though, I had found a Christmas tree farm, where you had a lovely drive into the countryside, then a ride on a tractor, and then you chose and chopped down your own Christmas tree! What could be more divine? Off we went, me merrily carolling ‘OHHHHHH CHRISTMAS TREE, ohhhh Christmas treeeeeeeee!’ at the top of my voice while Simon muttered about being quiet so he could concentrate on driving and Peter and Jane whined in the back because they weren’t allowed to bring their iPods. But so what, we were going to have a Magical Day and create Happy Memories that would stay with them forever.
Peter fell into the mud within five minutes of arrival and spent the rest of the visit crying that he was so cold he thought he was going to die. Simon turned into Mr Caveman Hunter as soon as he was entrusted with the saw to chop down the tree and did a lot of shouting along the lines of ‘STAND BACK! STAND BACK! I am CHOPPING!’ Unusually, since now his hunter-gatherer skills were being called into question by having to forage for a tree, he insisted on one so enormous that even I was dubious about whether it would fit in the house, let alone the car.
However, Simon did make it fit into the car, mostly by sheer bloodymindedness, although the children were somewhat crushed beneath it; Jane claimed she almost lost an eye and Peter insisted he had pine needles in his pants.
Once home, we had the obligatory row over getting it into the stand, which involves Simon shouting ‘IS IT STRAIGHT? IS IT IN?’ and me shouting ‘YES, IT BLOODY IS!’ before he lets go and it topples over and we repeat it all over again at least six more times until the tree is finally stable and semi-vertical. Then Simon insists
on putting the lights on, because apparently lights are a man’s job, because his dad always did the lights, and only then can I create the magic of the baubles.
I love decorating the Christmas tree; it is one of my favourite things in the whole world. The first year I was away at university, I was so upset when I came home and found that Mum and Jessica had already done the tree without me that I cried until they took all the decorations off and started again, so I could help decorate it.
In the early days with the children I had lovely ideas about us all doing it together, but then I realised that I am a Tree Nazi and the children do it All Wrong, so mostly I shout at them for the first ten minutes until they lose interest and bugger off and I can rearrange the baubles they have clearly put in stupid places (i.e., move their handcrafted glitter- and snot-caked monstrosities to the back of the tree, out of sight, so my tasteful glass John Lewis and White Company decorations are front and centre). Thus I can turn the tree into a Glorious Vision of Festive Joy while singing along loudly to carols and trying to stop the dog from pissing on it, because as far as he is concerned, why else would there be a tree in the sitting room?
And so now I sit by the twinkle of the fairy lights, my heart glowing with happiness, though that is possibly due to the fizzy wine I drank while I was decorating, crying ‘Look at the tree! Isn’t it Christmassy? Doesn’t it smell wonderful? Look at it! DON’T TOUCH IT! JUST LOOK. LEAVE THE CHOCOLATE DECORATIONS ALONE! No, they are not for eating. I don’t care if they are edible, you are not bloody eating them. That goes for you too, Simon.’ And all is well with the world, and this is possibly the most Christmassy day ever, although, again, that might just be due to the wine, and I think I shall have a little mince pie.