by Gill Sims
When we got home, a hollow-eyed Simon met me at the door, holding an indignantly squawking Boreas at arm’s length (I had refused to let Louisa bring him, as they didn’t have a car seat, and I was unconvinced of her argument that he would be perfectly safe on her lap in his sling).
‘Come on,’ said Simon, thrusting Boreas (who smelt hideous) into the loving arms of his mother and grabbing me by the hand, ‘we are going to the pub.’
Sam, the angel, had popped round to see if Peter and Jane wanted to go for a sleepover at his house. ‘They had their bags packed and coats on before I had even agreed,’ said Simon.
We recounted the horrors of our afternoon to each other as we numbed our pain with lovely, lovely, life-giving booze.
‘She has no idea of irony, refusing to buy her organic coffee in Waitrose because it is “too middle class” and then in her wretched artisan wholefood shop she filled a trolley with hugely expensive bird seed, then when we got to the till, announced she had actually forgotten her purse, because she is so unused to using money, as they just “barter with friends” for what they need! So I had to pay for the bloody lot.’
‘They followed me into my shed. My shed! Even Peter and Jane don’t go in my shed.’
‘In fairness, darling, that is because your shed is dark and smells funny and you told them there were Venezuelan Vampire Squirrels living in the corners that would attack small children on sight.’
‘And then they started touching things. In my shed! And then that little one, what’s it called? Not the baby, the next one up, the really snotty one?’
‘Oilell. These are the fruits of your sister’s loins, darling, you should really remember their names.’
‘Fuck off, darling, please don’t mention my sister’s loins after that birth video. Anyway, yes, that one squatted down and tried to do a poo. In my shed!’
‘Oh, the humanity! It crapped in the kitchen yesterday, I’ve no sympathy. Is it a girl or a boy, do you reckon?’
‘I have no idea, I have tried not to get close enough to find out. Anyway, fucking Beardo was eying up my tools and didn’t even notice, but the biggest girl –’
‘– Coventina –’
‘How do you remember all their names?’
‘Years of listening to how Tilly said to Milly, so Milly said to Katie and then Katie told Lucy, so then Lucy said to Sophie and then Sophie said that Tilly and Milly should totally do that, and so then Lucy was crying, which was stupid of Lucy, and Katie said she didn’t even care, and then Sophie said to Tilly and so then Milly, etc., etc. And then you have to work out who they all are so you don’t accidently ask arch enemies over at the same time, and you invite the right Tillies, Millies, Sophies, Katies and Lucies to birthday parties.’
‘Are they all called Tilly and Milly and Katie and Sophie and Lucy?’
‘No, darling, don’t be silly, some of them are called Olivia. And there’s a couple of Poppies. Anyway, what happened with the floor shitter?’
‘Oh, the biggest girl –’
‘– Coventina –’
‘– Coventina saw the look in my eye and the steam coming out of my nostrils and grabbed it and hauled it outside and it shat on the patio. Which was still better than in my shed. And then Beardo asked if I would mind if he borrowed my mitre saw and I said what for and he said to take back to the retreat to do some work. He basically tried to steal MY mitre saw, Ellen.’
‘More importantly, what happened to the patio poo?’
‘Oh, Coventina got some of the dog’s poo bags and picked it up. She seems quite normal, I like her. I caught her stealing sausage rolls out the fridge with Peter and Jane, and when I asked her about being a gluten-free vegan, she sighed and said she didn’t want to talk about it and ate another sausage roll.’
‘Hurrah for Coventina! She will probably end up changing her name to Susan and becoming a stockbroker to rebel against her parents.’
It was actually rather lovely being out with Simon, as usually if I suggest we go out, unless it is a special occasion, he grumbles he is too tired, or it is too cold or wet, and can’t we just stay at home because there will be People if we go out? It says something for the horrors of his sister’s family that they have driven Simon out into the world of People. We laughed, and we got mildly (really quite) drunk and when I checked my phone, there was an email to say that ten people had bought my app, which means, I think, if my pissed arithmetic is right, that I have so far made the princely sum of £7! If another ninety people download it, I will even have made back the $100 I paid to register as an app developer. Someone having bought it, I finally thought I should probably tell Simon about it, just in case it does make our fortune. He was slightly confused about what it was and why I had created it, but the key phrase of ‘money’ pierced the fog of lager and he said it sounded very clever of me.
We even held hands as we walked home together, though he wouldn’t let me look in the skip outside number 27, which I felt was unreasonable, but as he pointed out, if there had been anything worth having in there, Louisa and Bardo would have had it out hours ago.
Thursday, 24 December – Christmas Eve
Scrap what I said about 1 December being the most hopeful day of the festive season, I was foolish and wrong, for of course that day is Christmas Eve! A day for kissing under the mistletoe and listening to Carols from King’s on the wireless and being pleased that they use the proper King James Bible for the readings and not the nasty modern version they use in the children’s carol service at school, because despite being not in the slightest bit religious, if I am going to have a bit of Bible going on, I want it to be the proper one with plenty of ‘unto theeings’ and ‘thou artests’.
It is a day for watching It’s a Wonderful Life snuggled on the sofa with my apple-cheeked moppets and wrapping presents by the fire in a tastefully kitsch Christmas jumper while drinking mulled wine (still haven’t remembered to find out what hot cider is) and eating mince pies, before reading The Night Before Christmas to the children and putting out a mince pie and a large Scotch for Santa (Simon did away with the ‘glass of milk’ idea at Jane’s first Christmas) and a carrot for Rudolph. Then it’s time to hang the stockings and send the kids off to bed so that I can curl up with my beloved husband and watch Love Actually over a delicious glass of good-quality red wine, then yawn our way up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire.
It is not a day for waking up to nine texts from Jessica agonising about which Christmas pudding to bring, as she has now bought puddings from Waitrose (‘Great news, I managed to get a Heston Blumenthal one on eBay!’), Selfridges, Harrods and Fortnum & Mason. I think Jessica has spent more on Christmas puddings than I have spent on the whole of the rest of Christmas dinner! There were also five texts from her checking whether I had the pickled beetroot for the Christmas Tea (‘OF COURSE I HAVE THE PICKLED BEETROOT, JESSICA, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU TAKE ME FOR?’).
It is not a day for wrangling with a sleep-deprived Peter and Jane while clearing up the mess left in the kitchen by Louisa yet again, or realising that peeling enough potatoes for twenty-two people actually takes far longer than the Carols from King’s service, and trying to wrestle with a giant bastarding turkey that you are not even sure will fit in your oven while Bardo hovers and demands that the sludge roast that he is creating for his monstrous brood in no way comes into contact with the slaughterhouse horror of my turkey.
It is not a day for spilling a vat of turkey stock over the floor and mopping it up while sobbing ‘I just want to watch It’s a Wonderful Life, IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?’
It is most definitely not a day for discovering that Peter and Jane have been at the Haribo, although thank God for small mercies, they only shared with Coventina (‘Do you think you could just call me Tina, please?’), but the three of them were then smacked off their tits on sugar and bouncing round the house.
When I looked out of the kitchen window Nisien was straining in the middle of the lawn, and there is a suspicious smell in
the dining room that suggests that Oilell has paid it a visit and left a surprise Christmas present in there.
By 8 p.m. I was a frazzled wreck. No presents were wrapped, for anybody. It was now impossible to tell the Hariboed children from the non-Hariboed as they had all reached such a fever pitch of excitement that attempting to sit them all down to listen to The Night Before Christmas was akin to herding cats, though Tina did attempt to help by screaming ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU LITTLE SHITS’ at her siblings, which woke the baby, who started to scream, and I declared I could not do this and took the bottle of Baileys and retreated to my bedroom to start wrapping the presents.
Peace to wrap was not forthcoming, as there were eleventy fucking billion interruptions: from Louisa, wanting to borrow scissors; Simon asking if he should do the mince pie and whisky for Santa yet; Peter and Jane howling that something or other was unfair; Louisa again, wanting clean towels (MORE towels? What is she doing with them? Is she planning on giving birth again, in some sort of Christmas Miracle?); Cedric peering in beadily, claiming he just wondered what I was doing, but I suspect he was actually casing the joint for things to steal, and finally Bardo wanting, well, I don’t know what the fuck Bardo wanted because at that point I flung myself wholeheartedly into what has now become my traditional Christmas Meltdown.
I sobbed that I JUST wanted five minutes’ peace, just five minutes’ peace, Christmas was magical and they were all RUINING THE MAGIC, and then I shrieked ‘FML’ several times and grabbed my somewhat startled dog, a blanket (I have done this before and learnt from experience), and the Baileys, and stomped off to the garage, where I watched YouTube clips from It’s a Wonderful Life on my phone and cried into the dog’s fur.
The dog doesn’t really like being cried on; he is not a concerned and empathetic creature who feels my pain, like everyone says dogs are. He wriggled a lot and farted at me. I think he’s part cat. So then I cried some more because even the dog hates me, and it was bloody freezing in the garage but pride forbade me from going back in, so I had some more Baileys to keep warm.
After about an hour and half, Simon came out to find me. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘Noooooo,’ I snivelled drunkenly. ‘Everything is ruined and there’s too much to do and I can’t do it all!’
‘You don’t have to,’ said Simon. ‘Why do you do this to yourself every year, instead of just asking for help? Anyway, the children are all in bed, and I’ve told them if one of them sets foot out of bed before 7 a.m. tomorrow morning, it will be Rudolph steaks for Christmas dinner. I’ve finished the wrapping, and Louisa and Bardo are actually clearing up the kitchen. I don’t know that they’ll make much of a job of it, but at least they are giving it a go. And look, it’s snowing! We’re going to have a White Christmas! Which will be …?’
‘Magical!’ I sobbed. He was right. Fat white flakes were billowing down, covering the hideous trampoline and the discarded Swingball set and transforming our dull little suburban street into Narnia.
‘Oh God, I’ve been such a dick,’ I said to Simon.
‘You have,’ he said. ‘But you’re my dick. Well, you know what I mean, and I love you.’
And then he kissed me, and everything was indeed magical.
Friday, 25 December – Christmas Day!
The magic did not last, as I suddenly remembered that no one had picked up Nisien’s poo from the middle of the lawn, so I had to rush out and remove it so that the children did not stand on it when they went out to frolic in the snow in the morning.
Simon had made heroic attempts to wrap, but had not found the many presents I had stashed around the house throughout the year, so there was still a fair amount left to do, and we finally fell into bed at about 2 a.m., which is still earlier than I have managed in other years.
Unfortunately, sleep was delayed by Louisa and Bardo deciding to take the opportunity to indulge in a bout of noisy sex. I can’t even go there, except to say they are both extremely vocal and I was not able to look either of them in the eye this morning, after their various exhortations to each other.
The children managed to hold to Simon’s decree that they stay in bed until 7 a.m. or Rudolph would die horribly, but once they were up, their excitement was at fever pitch once more. Peter and Jane had received their customary quantities of evil corporate consumerism, while Louisa’s children had homemade gifts, carved by Bardo, and clothes from me, for fear of Louisa’s shunning anything else. This caused some controversy, as Louisa’s older children demanded to know why Santa had brought them such rubbish and given all the good stuff to their cousins, to which Louisa and Bardo cooed that Santa knew each family’s values and gifted accordingly, and exhorted their darlings to remember that you only really owned your soul, and possessions were just shackles.
At this point Cedric attempted to stage a revolution and demanded the redistribution of the bourgeois wealth amongst the masses, by announcing it would be much fairer if Peter and Jane gave them some of their nice, shiny, mind-rotting electronics, at which point Jane produced a knife from her pocket and declared that she would cut anyone who touched her stuff, which suggests that she had already got wind of Cedric’s plans and armed herself accordingly.
We distracted them by suggesting they all went to play in the lovely snow, so half an hour later, having removed Jane’s knife, frisked the rest of them for weapons and wrestled them all into hats and gloves and coats and boots, they went forth to frolic while the grown-ups exchanged gifts.
I had given Louisa expensive soap and toiletries and also a nice scarf, because that is my default panic-buying gift. Bardo got beard oil, a nail brush and posh shower gel. I had carefully made sure everything was organic, ethically sourced and lovingly handmade by artisans; the scarf was even made of hemp, so there was no way that they could sneer at my thoughtful (if pointed) gifts and reject them.
They gave us ‘treatments’. I got off quite lightly, with a Reiki session from Louisa, which at least meant she wouldn’t touch me. ‘I didn’t know you were trained in Reiki, Louisa,’ I said.
‘Amaris, please, and I didn’t need to be trained, Ellen,’ she replied scornfully. ‘Reiki is all about channelling the universal energy through yourself and letting it flow into the other person. I have such a strong connection with the energy that I am a natural. Sometimes it is all I can do to stop the energy overflowing and channel it where it needs to go. Feel this!’ She waved her hands in front of me. ‘Do you feel it? The heat, and the energy? That is flowing through me all the time, Ellen, all the time! It’s incredibly powerful. I think I might be one of the most powerful Reiki masters ever. I have a calling!’
I didn’t actually feel anything, except a wish that Louisa would wash her hands more often.
‘Errr, right. Can you actually call yourself a Reiki master if you’ve not had any training?’
‘Power like this can’t be taught, Ellen. It just is. I just “am”. It’s my blessing from the Goddess, and also my curse.’
‘Great. Well, thanks!’
Poor Simon had been given a past lives regression session with Bardo.
‘Amaris is always saying you’re so repressed, man!’ enthused Bardo. ‘So, we’re going to get to the bottom of it and find out why.’
Simon was speechless.
Louisa chipped in, ‘Bardo is incredibly good at this. It’s one of our most popular sessions at the retreat, it’s amazing! People say that it helps them to understand themselves so much better, just knowing who they were in a past life. I mean, just last month, we had a woman who had been Marie Antoinette, Emily Brontë, Queen Victoria and Marie Curie! Imagine the weight of grief and emotion and trauma she was carrying with her. Bardo helped her understand that this had built up over centuries, and she had to learn to let it go and forgive herself for her pain. Of course, something like that can’t be overcome in a few hours, it took many, many sessions for her to let go of her past selves and live in the present, but Bardo worked wonders.’
Bardo added
, ‘She had been Cleopatra too, Ams. Don’t forget that.’
Simon inquired, ‘Didn’t Marie Curie, Emily Brontë and Queen Victoria’s lives all overlap?’
Curious, I asked, ‘How much do you charge for these “sessions” exactly?’
Horrified, Louisa exclaimed, ‘Simon! It won’t work if you don’t believe!’, while Bardo mumbled something about it not really being about the money, it was about using his gift to help others, ‘Although obviously we do have to cover our costs.’
‘And how,’ asked Simon, ‘do we go about this “regression” exactly?’
‘Well,’ said Bardo, getting excited. ‘Usually we would do it in our yurt, but I reckon we could use your shed. We will light that woodstove you have in there and strip naked and then I burn certain herbs, I can’t tell you what, because it is a closely guarded secret that a yogi in Omnatoli told me, and then I chant and put you in a trance, and take you back.’
Simon, who had looked for a moment like he was going to play along with Bardo’s ‘regression’ if only to take the piss and expose him as the snake oil salesman that he really is, now looked aghast at the thought of full-frontal male nudity in his shed.
‘And how do you put me in the trance?’ he asked.
Bardo looked confused. ‘Um, I just tell them they’re in a trance and they go into one …?’
‘Yes, well, we have a busy few days before you leave, so it’s very thoughtful of you, but I’m not sure we’ll have time.’ Simon said briskly, clearly suspecting Bardo of planning to drug him and steal his precious mitre saw from under his very nose.
Luckily, at that moment the children decided they had had enough of the snow, having spent a full twenty minutes playing in it (and trampling my winter wonderland into a churned-up post-apocalyptic wasteland in the process) and decided a much better game was to come inside and trail snow and mud all through the house. I abandoned Simon at that point in favour of retiring to the kitchen with my hangover and a bottle of gin to check on the turkey and the other mountains of food, and fret there would not be enough to go around.