Losing my Christmassy head
A 12 hour snapshot when there are too many things on your to-do list...
A shambolic night’s sleep, an explosive cold, house guests arriving and a man called Tony with atrocious driving skills do not a relaxing run up to Christmas maketh.
2.30am to 2.30pm. Saturday December 21.
2.30am - spring awake to the sound of keys rummaging around in locks and the front door opening and closing. Eldest teenager has come in from their fun night out. Well done them.
2.30am to 4.30am -Try to get back to sleep with varying degrees of unsuccess. After box-breathing and thinking of peaceful things such as puffy little clouds wisping across skies and trees blowing gently in the breeze, I am still awake. Pull on headphones and attempt to listen to new audiobook Butter (author Asako Yuzuki).
3.30am -Lie with eyes shut and try not think about things that need doing while also attempting to block out snores and sudden coughing fits coming from partner lying beside me in bed.
3.50 am -Get increasingly irritated by all the references to butter in Butter. (Guess the clue was in the title). Let out a huff of exasperation at yet another ref about spaghetti glistening, noodles simmering, butter melting or not melting or butter doing anything at all. Rip headphones from ears and toss them to bedroom floor. Decide this is not ideal listening material when feeling slightly hungry in the dead of night.
5am -Resign myself to fact that sleep is not going to happen. Get up and go downstairs to make a cup of decaf tea. Wrestle with the cat who is attempting to dart from the kitchen in ninja-like fashion. Resort to using the special ‘cat-defender.’ broom permanently housed between door frame and fridge. Retreat back upstairs to the strains of wild meowing and scratching paws on the door.
5am - 5.45am -Scroll covertly through Substack whilst trying not to wake partner with light coming from phone screen. Note that Rev Richard Coles who had 35 subscribers yesterday, (less than my 52…REJOICE), now has 399 subscribers and 1.6k people have ‘liked’ his picture of a field with sheep in it and a blue sky. Feel a pang of completely pointless envy. Oh well it was bound to happen. He’d only been on Substack for 24 hours.
Hunt for other celebrities in the algorithm who have paltry amounts of subscribers in a bid to lift spirits. Mariella Frostrupp doesn’t have very many and nor does Dawn O Porter. But Mariella hasn’t posted anything and Dawn’s last post was hundreds of days ago. Give up this pointless activity.
Read some interesting Substack pieces about relationships finishing. Marriages ending. Divorce.
6.30am - 7.30am -Shut eyes. Have some kind of light doze. Wake up and cannot stop sneezing. What’s going on? Appear to have been gifted the same grizzly life-sucking cold my son was battling earlier in the week.
Go downstairs. Cat is released and pelts triumphantly from the room, scrambling joyously up the stairs to wake up every sleeping member in the household with his loud meowing and door-scratching.
7.45am -Empty the dishwasher noting that once again helpful family members have crammed in plates in an unacceptable overlapping formation meaning hardened egg yolks and remnants of chick-pea curry have not been rinsed away.
8.30am - 12.30pm -Attempt to get the house in some kind of festive, welcoming and vaguely clean-looking state for the arrival of friends who will be staying two nights. Locate blow-up bed in loft behind dolls house and never-used picnic set after banging head on low beams and cursing.
Try and locate any sheets and pillow cases that are of acceptable quality for guests.
Start spinning around the house in a frenzy of moving, cleaning, scrubbing, scraping.
Partner asks what he can do to help. Downstairs loo and bathrooms please.
Continue moving, cleaning, scrubbing, scraping, arranging all the while composing a disclaimer in my head that goes like this:
Dear Yuletide Guests
Welcome. Ahead of your short stay you are requested to sign the following document.
We hereby agree to turn a blind eye to the following and agree not to disclose details of the following to any third party:
*Cat hairs woven into the back of the sofa.
*Mouldy shower grouting in the bathroom that needs replacing.
*Jar containing repulsive looking sour-dough starter from 2020.
*Fridge door that collapses from hinges in unhelpful manner every time it is opened.
12.45pm -Partner calls up the stairs - he is just going to go for a short walk.
‘Fine’ I shout back through gritted teeth. Move mud encrusted football boots to the shoe rack by front door inadvertently leaving a trail of hardened clumps across newly hoovered floor. Continue moving, cleaning, scrubbing, scraping, arranging as anger rises and my nose continues to function as a miserable little dripping tap attached to my face.
Get through an entire box of tissues in the space of three hours.
1pm - Son comes into room and says, ‘Mum, don’t get angry but something bad has just happened.’
I take a deep breath.
A car has just smashed into ours outside our house. But it’s ok. The person is writing a note and leaving it on the windscreen.
I lose my Christmassy head and start swearing a lot, scrambling (and failing) to locate phone to take pictures of reg plate from bedroom window as big fat 4X4 vehicle disappears into the distance.
Race outside the house in slippers, wild-eyed and apoplectic to survey large scrape and denting down side of car. Rip note from windscreen. Vent at smiley, jovial neighbour who just happens, (unfortunately for him), to be walking by to post his Xmas cards. I am fuming with rage. Why do drivers use our parked cars like the safety rails on a bowling alley? FFS.
1.15pm - Ring the number on the note. Australian accent. Man called Tony. He’s very sorry. Yes. Damage to rear side panel. Yes. but he DID leave a note. He pauses. I don’t speak. I think he is waiting for me to thank him for his note-leaving honesty.
I am not in a grateful mood.
‘Thank you for the fucking note Tony. How about next time you look where you are fucking driving in your big fat fucking car thus alleviating the need for the fucking note.’
I don’t say this.
I just think it.
I return to cleaning, scrubbing, scraping, arranging while adding to my mental load list which currently has 8756 things on it to ‘Get quote for car damage from garage and bill Tony’.
1.30pm - Hear very loud music coming from kitchen. Teenagers are listening to Wham. Everything She Wants. They are singing and dancing. It’s a touching moment of Yuletide sibling harmony in every respect .
I slam down the bottle of Mr Muscle and rubber gloves on the worktop and join in.
My gyrating dance moves are wild and manic Tim Booth style (google him if you like) I shout-sing the lyrics at the top of my voice giving it everything I have.
I am releasing pent up tension to George Michael.
I miss lovely, talented George Michael being on the planet.
Especially at Christmas.
An hour until friends arrive. I stop dancing and return to tidying. Do I bother moving the mountain of football bibs in the living room, the bicycle pump, the discarded school rucksack? I look at the Sainsbury’s bag containing a wild tangle of unidentified cables and recall the time I interviewed Stacey Solomon for her BBC show Sort Your Life Out and visited the large warehouse where a family’s entire household contents had been organised.
I wish Stacey and team could be teleported here.
I think the following thoughts..
Our house makes me feel: Overwhelmed.Unrelaxed. Hemmed in.
Realise I need to get a grip. I like our house. Just wish there wasn’t a never ending tidal wave of stuff sloshing chaotically from inhabitants who are immune to the detritus.
Partner returns cheery from walk.
Daughter asks why I am so grumpy.
I ask partner if there has been a downturn in my mood since I stopped taking the antidepressant Sertraline.
There is a telling pause that speaks volumes.
2pm -Sneezing and nose-dripping continues. Red marks on nostrils coming up nicely. I leave the house. Destination Superdrug.
Bump into friend on street who is happy to see me.
Don’t come near me, I say. I have a horrendous cold.
Oh dear she says.
We have a quick chat. I mention an article I read on Substack this morning about women divorcing their husbands. It made me think of her.
She is freshly divorced. I will forward it to you I say. I don’t know why. She doesn’t need it.
Yes. Have a lovely Christmas. Hope you feel better.
Thank you. You too.
Stock up on 4 boxes of tissues. Two packets of Lemsip in Superdrug. Woman in queue gives me knowing sympathetic look.
Go to M&S to buy crisps, biscuits and fun food items to balance out miserable non fun items of tissues and Lemsips
2.20pm - Get home. Survey the scene. Boil the kettle in preparation for lemon, honey and paracetamol combo. Switch on the Christmas tree lights. Remove trip-hazard trainers from staircase. Top up cat bowl with food.
2.30pm - Knock at the door. The friends are here. I give them a big smile. Don’t hug me I warn. Don’t want you to catch this.
Merry Christmas they say.
Merry Christmas I reply.
And Merry Christmas to you my lovely subscribers. I hope it is everything you want it to be. Thank you for reading. I’ll see you for more fun in the New Year. xx
,Well done them’ 😂. I’m missing George too (more than usual)