Well, I'm finally back, though for God's sake don't talk to me about oil barons – or MPs.
I'm probably not worth talking to at all, now I come to think of it, seeing as I haven't got anything of interest to add to a conversation. Life seems to have gone completely back to normal, except that it's almost time for Christmas, and nothing about Christmas could ever be described as that.
Before you know it, the whole thing will be over, though – which would be great, if Christmas wasn't immediately followed by New Year's Eve, when you're supposed to review your successes and failures over the past twelve months, and then work out how to have rather more of the former than the latter in the coming year.
That shouldn't be too difficult, given my total lack of anything even approaching an achievement during 2013. Or 2012. Or...I'm bored with this now, so I'm not going to think about New Year's Eve any more, or Christmas, either, if I can help it – which I can't, as forgetting about Christmas seems to be prohibited.
When did the shops start banging on about the so-called festive season this year? I'm sure it was even earlier than usual, which is totally counter-productive, if the effect on me is anything to go by. I haven't bought a single card or present yet, and I still haven't developed a sense of urgency either – precisely because I'm so aware that the fuss about Christmas starts too early. It makes me feel I've got forever to prepare for it.
I didn't even react when Mum mentioned the C-word when she phoned last night, to say that she's already fed up with it – until she added that this lack of enthusiasm meant that she and Ted wanted to come to our house for Christmas Day, instead of us going to theirs, as we usually do. I nearly had a heart attack at that point, and so did Max. He's still worrying about it when we get up this morning.
"What the hell are we supposed to cook for their Christmas dinner?" he says, as I'm struggling to pull my thermal leggings over fleece-lined tights. "There can't be anything left that your mother's still willing to eat, what with all the health-scare stuff she reads."
"She said they'll bring things with them, to go with whatever we're all having," I say. "She suggested what she called a healthy combination of quiche, pizza, avocados and cottage cheese. I'm not quite sure how the first two made the cut."
"Well, they'll go brilliantly with turkey and all the trimmings," says Max, rolling his eyes. "Though at least I won't have to make vegetarian gravy, I suppose. I doubt even your Mum eats that with quiche."
I consider not responding to this, in an effort to avoid annoying Max further, but then decide I probably should. Respond, I mean, not make him more annoyed. (I'm working on the principle that honesty's the best policy from now on – the "from now on" part being the crucial factor, as that means that I don't have to mention Johnny.)
"Um, I think you will, Max," I say, wincing. "Ted's given up dairy, so he doesn't want the same as Mum. He wants vegetarian sausages...with gravy. He hasn't read that article she keeps quoting about soya and its effect on thyroid function yet."
"Well, obviously neither he nor your mum give a toss about the effect cooking their Christmas dinner will have on my health," says Max, demonstrating even less festive cheer than that with which Mum is currently endowed. "I can feel my blood pressure rising, at the thought of it."
His spirits look as if they're plunging in the opposite direction as he stalks off downstairs, turning the thermostat down as he passes it, and then flicking off all the light switches that Josh has left turned on – so I'd better think of something to cheer him up.
It's a bit of a challenge, in the middle of a recession, and with energy companies doing their best to bankrupt everyone bar themselves. Especially everyone blessed with a teenager whose only contribution to the cost of energy bills is to add to them – not that I can blame Josh for the latest rise in the price of gas and electricity. I'm pretty sure we've got Ed Miliband to thank for that.
If he'd had the sense to keep quiet about his plan to freeze the cost of energy, and waited to surprise the companies with it if he gets elected – I mean when he gets elected (must try much harder to sound as if I think that's likely) – then it wouldn't have occurred to them to raise their prices in anticipation, would it?
You'd think Ed and his "special" advisors would have thought of that, seeing as I have – and I'm only a lowly MPs' caseworker. (I put the apostrophe in MPs' after the P to start with, which resulted in "a lowly MP's caseworker", which was probably equally accurate.)
Anyway, I can't sit here tinkering with apostrophes when I'm supposed to be coming up with ways to cheer Max up...and there's no point me trying to do Ed Miliband's thinking for him, either. According to Mr Beales, the unions are already in charge of that.
I join Max in the kitchen, where he's staring hopelessly at a vegetarian cookbook I bought some time in the early 1980s, when all non-meat dishes were apparently brown and mushy-looking, according to the photographs. Max doesn't seem to find those at all inspiring.
"It could be worse," I say, rather too brightly, as Max looks distinctly optimistic for all of a second. "At least Dad's in Thailand this year, so you won't have to fight him for the remote control on Christmas Day."
Max doesn't even bother to pretend to be impressed.
"Is that really the best you could do, Mol?" he says. "I thought you were supposed to have political skills."
That's number one on my New Year's resolutions list, then, isn't it? Improve my political skills. Let's hope it's on Ed Miliband's, too. Oh, and The Boss's.
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Sunday, 1 December 2013
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
Back To Life, Back To Reality. And Not In A Good Way.
Well, I'm back in the land of the living. Or of the utterly insane, to be more accurate. And I've gone right off politics - if that's what my job actually involves, which I rather doubt. I'm sure I've got more in common with psychiatric social workers than with MPs.
Anyway, the only advantage to having a shitty first day back at work is that now Christmas doesn't seem half as bad as it did at the time.
"What presents did you get, then, Mol?" says Greg, when he arrives this morning.
"A coat-stand, a shelf and a block of Caerphilly cheese," I say.
"Oh," says Greg. Which may well be the shortest sentence he's ever uttered.
At least the cheese had the virtue of being personal, though. And it was only an emergency gift, according to Connie, who was its donor.
"Unlike Dad or Josh, I ordered your proper present weeks before Christmas - and it was something I knew you actually wanted," she said. "And then Amazon couldn't even manage to deliver the bloody thing. I'll never trust them again."
"Well, it has been snowing everywhere," I said. "So I suppose it's been a pretty challenging time."
"Wouldn't have been half so bloody challenging if they'd sent the parcel to the right country," said Connie. "I'm writing a letter of complaint. Want to hear it?"
"No," I said. "I'm on holiday. That would just be like listening to a moaning constituent."
Honestly, I might as well have saved my breath. Connie had already started reading aloud:
"Given that you have inexplicably sent my mother's present to Scotland instead of to England, as per the address given, I fail to see how snow could have been a factor in your incompetence."
I'm still absurdly proud of her use of 'inexplicably' for some reason. Probably because it sums up the whole of the so-called festive season.
It remains inexplicable why Max was already asleep on the sofa by 9:00pm on Christmas Eve when we were supposed to be playing games and bonding as a family; why Connie and Josh had had an enormous row by 11:00am on Christmas Day and why, according to Connie, Max resembles a mis-shapen potato when he's drunk.
"He looks more like someone who's been let out of the day centre without his carer to me," said Josh. "And how can it take him five and a half hours to cook Christmas dinner?"
"Drinking two bottles of wine by yourself can't be rushed," said Max. "And anyway, I'm fine. Now let's crack open that After Dinner Quiz box. Then we can bond like you all said you wanted to."
"Of what is helminthology the study?"
As usual, and without any prior consultation, Josh, the self-appointed Magnus Magnusson* of Northwick, had decided he was going to read out the questions. Democracy is a concept that remains stubbornly beyond his grasp.
"No idea," said Connie and I simultaneously. "Give us a clue."
"Like you two," said Josh.
"Women?" I said.
"Geniuses?" said Connie.
"Parasitic worms," said Josh.
This should have provided an early indicator as to how the rest of the game was going to pan out, and led to pre-emptive action, but I never learn. I must be more of an optimist than I thought.
Josh's next question was directed at Max:
"Dad - what is the oldest vegetable?"
"Molly," said Max. He didn't even miss a beat.
Coming from a man who looks like Mr Potato Head, I'd have been a bit more careful with the plant-based insults if I was him.
*Magnus Magnusson - presenter of BBC Mastermind for twenty-five years, and a lot more polite a quizmaster than Josh.
Anyway, the only advantage to having a shitty first day back at work is that now Christmas doesn't seem half as bad as it did at the time.
"What presents did you get, then, Mol?" says Greg, when he arrives this morning.
"A coat-stand, a shelf and a block of Caerphilly cheese," I say.
"Oh," says Greg. Which may well be the shortest sentence he's ever uttered.
At least the cheese had the virtue of being personal, though. And it was only an emergency gift, according to Connie, who was its donor.
"Unlike Dad or Josh, I ordered your proper present weeks before Christmas - and it was something I knew you actually wanted," she said. "And then Amazon couldn't even manage to deliver the bloody thing. I'll never trust them again."
"Well, it has been snowing everywhere," I said. "So I suppose it's been a pretty challenging time."
"Wouldn't have been half so bloody challenging if they'd sent the parcel to the right country," said Connie. "I'm writing a letter of complaint. Want to hear it?"
"No," I said. "I'm on holiday. That would just be like listening to a moaning constituent."
Honestly, I might as well have saved my breath. Connie had already started reading aloud:
"Given that you have inexplicably sent my mother's present to Scotland instead of to England, as per the address given, I fail to see how snow could have been a factor in your incompetence."
I'm still absurdly proud of her use of 'inexplicably' for some reason. Probably because it sums up the whole of the so-called festive season.
It remains inexplicable why Max was already asleep on the sofa by 9:00pm on Christmas Eve when we were supposed to be playing games and bonding as a family; why Connie and Josh had had an enormous row by 11:00am on Christmas Day and why, according to Connie, Max resembles a mis-shapen potato when he's drunk.
"He looks more like someone who's been let out of the day centre without his carer to me," said Josh. "And how can it take him five and a half hours to cook Christmas dinner?"
"Drinking two bottles of wine by yourself can't be rushed," said Max. "And anyway, I'm fine. Now let's crack open that After Dinner Quiz box. Then we can bond like you all said you wanted to."
"Of what is helminthology the study?"
As usual, and without any prior consultation, Josh, the self-appointed Magnus Magnusson* of Northwick, had decided he was going to read out the questions. Democracy is a concept that remains stubbornly beyond his grasp.
"No idea," said Connie and I simultaneously. "Give us a clue."
"Like you two," said Josh.
"Women?" I said.
"Geniuses?" said Connie.
"Parasitic worms," said Josh.
This should have provided an early indicator as to how the rest of the game was going to pan out, and led to pre-emptive action, but I never learn. I must be more of an optimist than I thought.
Josh's next question was directed at Max:
"Dad - what is the oldest vegetable?"
"Molly," said Max. He didn't even miss a beat.
Coming from a man who looks like Mr Potato Head, I'd have been a bit more careful with the plant-based insults if I was him.
*Magnus Magnusson - presenter of BBC Mastermind for twenty-five years, and a lot more polite a quizmaster than Josh.
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
Tommy Cooper, Vince Cable And Keats: Not As Unrelated As One Might Think
Gah. This bloody snow is screwing everything up. Now Johnny says he's not sure if he wants to risk flying in from Moscow next week for what is supposed to be our night of passion. Or evening of passion, anyway.
"I'll make it up to you, I promise," he says. "But I just can't afford to get stuck there between Christmas and New Year. Never seen anything like the cock-up at Heathrow. Bloody pathetic what a few inches of snow causes in the UK."
I refrain from pointing out that the Russian winds aren't exactly helping, but Carlotta and Marie-Louise seem to agree with him about the efficiency of British travel. They have decided not to attempt the journey from London for today's office lunch.
"We really don't want to spend hours sitting in a freezing train, only to have to walk along the railway line to safety, and then hang around for a coach to get us to Northwick," says Carlotta. "And Marie doesn't much feel like spending any more time with The Boss than necessary, anyway, while he's still being so horrible to her."
So, by the time we arrive at Salvatore's for lunch, we're a pretty depleted group: me, Greg, Andrew and bloody Vicky. Mind you, the atmosphere's better than it is at home, as at least The Boss is in a better mood than Max was when I left home this morning.
Andrew is in a very good mood, actually. I've no idea why, unless he's just realised how lucky he is that his penchant for attractive young women hasn't left him in a mess to rival Vince Cable's. So far.
Andrew's even feeling generous, and opens his battered old briefcase with a flourish to reveal a clutch of gifts. I'm suddenly reminded of Tommy Cooper, but I don't say anything, as the presents look pretty promising for a change.
For a start, they don't look book-shaped, so hopefully they don't contain sequels to the matching copies of Cooking With Northwick Piccalilli that Andrew gave me and Greg last year. We were convinced he'd got them free when he was taken on a tour of the factory a few months earlier.
Anyway, I digress. (Must be the hormones, or the thought of Piccalilli.) Andrew hands us all our gifts, and says:
"Ho, ho, ho. Happy Christmas!"
He really does look very pleased with himself.
"Did Trish choose these?" says Greg. "They're ever so well-wrapped."
"No, I bought them," says Andrew. "Although Trish did help out with the packing. I'm no good at that fiddly stuff."
He glances at Vicky, who doesn't seem very impressed with her small package. To be fair, it isn't half as nicely-wrapped as the others and, as she inspects it, a tear in the paper reveals something turquoise underneath.
"Ah, yes. That one," says Andrew. "Trish ran out of time, so I had to wrap yours myself, Vicky. Anyway, hope you all like your presents, and thanks for your hard work this year."
I'd prefer not to be watched while I open mine, after last year's proved virtually impossible to look thrilled about, but The Boss looks so expectant that there's no choice but to get on with the unwrapping. I cross my fingers and hope for the best.
Greg tears the paper off his first, only to find a box of Matchmakers. Cool mint ones, admittedly - but even so, he doesn't exactly look overwhelmed.
"Oh," he says. "Um, yeah. Matchmakers. Thanks, Boss."
"No, no," says Andrew. "Open the box."
He laughs, and nudges Vicky - as if there's any chance of someone as young as she is understanding a reference to Take Your Pick. She doesn't disillusion him, though, and I can't bring myself to, either. There's something almost childish about Andrew's excitement today, and it would feel too cruel to put a dampener on it.
Greg does as he's told, and slides the box lid back.
"Oh," he says again - though this time in an entirely different tone. "HMV vouchers - brilliant! Thanks, Boss."
"Trish thought the boxes would fool you," says Andrew. "Now your turn, Molly."
I'm as chuffed as Greg was when I open my box - originally containing Morny soaps - to find that it too contains vouchers. For Northwick's premier beauty salon.
"Oh, Andrew," I say. "Thank you so much. I've never been to a beauty salon before."
"I should think he can see that," says Vicky, as she puts her package into her bag. Unopened.
"What have you got, Vicky?" says Greg.
"I don't know," she says. "I'll open it later, in private."
I'm expecting The Boss to object, but when I turn towards him, he's winking at her.
The meal's gorgeous - as it always is at Salvatore's - although there are a lot of awkward gaps in the conversation. I don't know if this is because Greg and I are barely drinking, as we've still got work to do today, or whether it's because Andrew only seems interested in what Vicky has to say. God knows why, as that's as boring the hell, as far as Greg and I can tell from the little we can hear in between her giggling.
Andrew and Vicky are extremely well-oiled by the time Greg and I decide that we're more than ready to go back to the office, and Andrew's trying to persuade Salvatore to ignore the smoking ban and allow the smoking of a pipe.
"Salvo," he shouts. "Join us for a drink - and meet Vicky, a very bella donna."
"Isn't that a poison?" says Greg, as he passes me my coat. "And wouldn't you think he'd be a bit more careful in the company of a giggling young woman?"
"Yes," I say. "You would, wouldn't you?"
Then we both stare at each other in horror, while images of tape recorders and journalists' notebooks swirl through our minds.
"Sod Belladonna," I say. "Let's just hope Vicky doesn't turn out to be La Belle Dame Sans Merci instead."
"I'll make it up to you, I promise," he says. "But I just can't afford to get stuck there between Christmas and New Year. Never seen anything like the cock-up at Heathrow. Bloody pathetic what a few inches of snow causes in the UK."
I refrain from pointing out that the Russian winds aren't exactly helping, but Carlotta and Marie-Louise seem to agree with him about the efficiency of British travel. They have decided not to attempt the journey from London for today's office lunch.
"We really don't want to spend hours sitting in a freezing train, only to have to walk along the railway line to safety, and then hang around for a coach to get us to Northwick," says Carlotta. "And Marie doesn't much feel like spending any more time with The Boss than necessary, anyway, while he's still being so horrible to her."
So, by the time we arrive at Salvatore's for lunch, we're a pretty depleted group: me, Greg, Andrew and bloody Vicky. Mind you, the atmosphere's better than it is at home, as at least The Boss is in a better mood than Max was when I left home this morning.
Andrew is in a very good mood, actually. I've no idea why, unless he's just realised how lucky he is that his penchant for attractive young women hasn't left him in a mess to rival Vince Cable's. So far.
Andrew's even feeling generous, and opens his battered old briefcase with a flourish to reveal a clutch of gifts. I'm suddenly reminded of Tommy Cooper, but I don't say anything, as the presents look pretty promising for a change.
For a start, they don't look book-shaped, so hopefully they don't contain sequels to the matching copies of Cooking With Northwick Piccalilli that Andrew gave me and Greg last year. We were convinced he'd got them free when he was taken on a tour of the factory a few months earlier.
Anyway, I digress. (Must be the hormones, or the thought of Piccalilli.) Andrew hands us all our gifts, and says:
"Ho, ho, ho. Happy Christmas!"
He really does look very pleased with himself.
"Did Trish choose these?" says Greg. "They're ever so well-wrapped."
"No, I bought them," says Andrew. "Although Trish did help out with the packing. I'm no good at that fiddly stuff."
He glances at Vicky, who doesn't seem very impressed with her small package. To be fair, it isn't half as nicely-wrapped as the others and, as she inspects it, a tear in the paper reveals something turquoise underneath.
"Ah, yes. That one," says Andrew. "Trish ran out of time, so I had to wrap yours myself, Vicky. Anyway, hope you all like your presents, and thanks for your hard work this year."
I'd prefer not to be watched while I open mine, after last year's proved virtually impossible to look thrilled about, but The Boss looks so expectant that there's no choice but to get on with the unwrapping. I cross my fingers and hope for the best.
Greg tears the paper off his first, only to find a box of Matchmakers. Cool mint ones, admittedly - but even so, he doesn't exactly look overwhelmed.
"Oh," he says. "Um, yeah. Matchmakers. Thanks, Boss."
"No, no," says Andrew. "Open the box."
He laughs, and nudges Vicky - as if there's any chance of someone as young as she is understanding a reference to Take Your Pick. She doesn't disillusion him, though, and I can't bring myself to, either. There's something almost childish about Andrew's excitement today, and it would feel too cruel to put a dampener on it.
Greg does as he's told, and slides the box lid back.
"Oh," he says again - though this time in an entirely different tone. "HMV vouchers - brilliant! Thanks, Boss."
"Trish thought the boxes would fool you," says Andrew. "Now your turn, Molly."
I'm as chuffed as Greg was when I open my box - originally containing Morny soaps - to find that it too contains vouchers. For Northwick's premier beauty salon.
"Oh, Andrew," I say. "Thank you so much. I've never been to a beauty salon before."
"I should think he can see that," says Vicky, as she puts her package into her bag. Unopened.
"What have you got, Vicky?" says Greg.
"I don't know," she says. "I'll open it later, in private."
I'm expecting The Boss to object, but when I turn towards him, he's winking at her.
The meal's gorgeous - as it always is at Salvatore's - although there are a lot of awkward gaps in the conversation. I don't know if this is because Greg and I are barely drinking, as we've still got work to do today, or whether it's because Andrew only seems interested in what Vicky has to say. God knows why, as that's as boring the hell, as far as Greg and I can tell from the little we can hear in between her giggling.
Andrew and Vicky are extremely well-oiled by the time Greg and I decide that we're more than ready to go back to the office, and Andrew's trying to persuade Salvatore to ignore the smoking ban and allow the smoking of a pipe.
"Salvo," he shouts. "Join us for a drink - and meet Vicky, a very bella donna."
"Isn't that a poison?" says Greg, as he passes me my coat. "And wouldn't you think he'd be a bit more careful in the company of a giggling young woman?"
"Yes," I say. "You would, wouldn't you?"
Then we both stare at each other in horror, while images of tape recorders and journalists' notebooks swirl through our minds.
"Sod Belladonna," I say. "Let's just hope Vicky doesn't turn out to be La Belle Dame Sans Merci instead."
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Chariots Of Fire, And Why Snow, MPs And Alcohol Don't Mix.
God, I'm knackered. I hardly slept a wink last night, because I woke up about an hour after I'd dozed off, and then I just could not get back to sleep. Bloody palpitations.
I think they were probably caused by the nightmare I'd been having just before I awoke. The Boss was driving a chariot through Northwick while dressed in a Roman centurion's outfit, and was making me pull the damn thing - on foot! It wouldn't have been so bad, if he hadn't kept whipping me every time I slowed down to catch my breath.
It definitely wasn't some sort of Freudian reference to my lack of a sex-life, as this was not the kind of whipping that anyone would enjoy, not even those people who apparently like hanging out in dungeons, while dressed in gimp suits. Mentioning no particular professions...
And I wasn't dressed in one of those pervy pony outfits, either, though I did have rather high heels on. It took bloody ages to pull the chariot past the market square, thanks to all the stupid cobbles. Architects never think when they decide on these silly "historic" road surfaces, do they?
After lunch, I realise what the nightmare probably signified: I must have been anticipating the inevitable blow-by-blow account of The Boss's journey back to Northwick after the *House rises for Christmas Recess. He always likes to make it as interactive as possible, and share the joy around.
Andrew's first call sets the scene:
"On my way to the station. Be back before the office closes."
"No need," I say. "There's nothing for you to do. Go straight home when you get off the train."
"Doesn't matter," he says. "I've got lots of stuff to give you to do. See you when I get there."
Greg groans when I recount the conversation, and decides to spend the next hour in the archive cupboard throwing darts at Andrew's photo. Then he returns to his desk, logs on to the Met Office's website and sits staring intently at the screen. For what feels like ages.
"What on earth are you doing?" I say. "You haven't even blinked for the last ten minutes."
"Taking evasive action. I am willing it to snow as heavily as possible between London and Northwick," he says. "Right now."
I do a sceptical eyebrow raise, but Greg doesn't take any notice:
"Don't just sit there, Mol - help me! Visualise blizzard conditions and concentrate. We need to harness the power of our minds if tomorrow's Christmas lunch isn't to be cancelled because we've got too much work again."
I pretend to co-operate for a couple of seconds, but then I get bored and give up, so it seems that my mind may be rather short on power today. Greg keeps at it, though - and, eventually, it starts to snow again. Rather heavily - so maybe he genuinely possesses some of those telekinetic powers that Max accused me of having.
This is quite a scary thought, but seems to be confirmed when The Boss sends a text saying:
"Mayhem here. Next train cancelled."
Greg cheers loudly at this news, and then nips off to the pub for a celebratory gin. I start to wonder if he's telepathic as well as telekinetic when Andrew's next text makes clear that his thoughts have also turned to alcohol:
"No idea when next train's coming & it's too bloody cold to wait on station. Going for drink in bar."
Oh, dear. This won't end well. The Boss should never be allowed to combine alcohol and train travel but, when I try to phone him to remonstrate, he's turned his bloody mobile off. I don't hear anything more for a good few hours, and we are just about to lock up when the phone starts to ring.
"Leave it," says Greg, who has already put his coat on, and is waiting in the doorway.
"Can't," I say. "It's the bloody private line. Probably his Lordship. You go, and I'll lock up as soon as I've got him off the phone."
Greg waves goodbye, as I pick up the receiver.
"Molly," says Andrew, in a very loud voice. "I'm on the train."
"Ah, right," I say. "Don't shout, though. You sound like Dom Joly."
"I'm not shouting. And who's Don Jorrey?"
Oh, bloody hell. Doesn't Andrew get the simplest cultural reference? And, if that's not shouting, then my name's Igor and I am a singing postman. Which might actually help in situations where you know there's a rant coming, but you can't do anything to prevent it. If I started yodelling about brotherly love, that'd probably stop The Boss in his tracks.
But I don't know any Russian songs - except for this, which probably doesn't count - so I have no option but to sit silently while Andrew yells about the incompetence of Network Rail, the Travel Information Office, and Philip Hammond MP. He doesn't award Mr Hammond his *Rt. Hon, either.
When he finally pauses for breath - or for what sounds rather like a hiccup - I grab my opportunity.
"Andrew, is there anyone else in the compartment with you?" I say.
"Yes," he says. "A load of businessmen who look like bloody bankers and Jon Tiverton from the Northwick Daily Press."
"Well, then, for goodness' sake stop swearing," I say. "And lower your voice! They're probably all journos who are writing down everything you say. Think about what's just happened to Vince Cable."
"Can't hear you," yells Andrew, even louder than before. "But remind me tomorrow never to support this fucking train operator's application for the rail franchise again.
As I sigh and put the phone down, I'm sure I can still hear him shouting: "Bloody wankers."
Well, they say you can take a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Or even pull his own damned chariot, now I come to think of it.
*House - House of Commons, which rises for the Christmas Recess today, to the joy of constituency staff everywhere.
*Irony - see above statement.
*Rt. Hon - Right Honourable. See here for clarification, as I can't be bothered to explain after the day I've had.
I think they were probably caused by the nightmare I'd been having just before I awoke. The Boss was driving a chariot through Northwick while dressed in a Roman centurion's outfit, and was making me pull the damn thing - on foot! It wouldn't have been so bad, if he hadn't kept whipping me every time I slowed down to catch my breath.
It definitely wasn't some sort of Freudian reference to my lack of a sex-life, as this was not the kind of whipping that anyone would enjoy, not even those people who apparently like hanging out in dungeons, while dressed in gimp suits. Mentioning no particular professions...
And I wasn't dressed in one of those pervy pony outfits, either, though I did have rather high heels on. It took bloody ages to pull the chariot past the market square, thanks to all the stupid cobbles. Architects never think when they decide on these silly "historic" road surfaces, do they?
After lunch, I realise what the nightmare probably signified: I must have been anticipating the inevitable blow-by-blow account of The Boss's journey back to Northwick after the *House rises for Christmas Recess. He always likes to make it as interactive as possible, and share the joy around.
Andrew's first call sets the scene:
"On my way to the station. Be back before the office closes."
"No need," I say. "There's nothing for you to do. Go straight home when you get off the train."
"Doesn't matter," he says. "I've got lots of stuff to give you to do. See you when I get there."
Greg groans when I recount the conversation, and decides to spend the next hour in the archive cupboard throwing darts at Andrew's photo. Then he returns to his desk, logs on to the Met Office's website and sits staring intently at the screen. For what feels like ages.
"What on earth are you doing?" I say. "You haven't even blinked for the last ten minutes."
"Taking evasive action. I am willing it to snow as heavily as possible between London and Northwick," he says. "Right now."
I do a sceptical eyebrow raise, but Greg doesn't take any notice:
"Don't just sit there, Mol - help me! Visualise blizzard conditions and concentrate. We need to harness the power of our minds if tomorrow's Christmas lunch isn't to be cancelled because we've got too much work again."
I pretend to co-operate for a couple of seconds, but then I get bored and give up, so it seems that my mind may be rather short on power today. Greg keeps at it, though - and, eventually, it starts to snow again. Rather heavily - so maybe he genuinely possesses some of those telekinetic powers that Max accused me of having.
This is quite a scary thought, but seems to be confirmed when The Boss sends a text saying:
"Mayhem here. Next train cancelled."
Greg cheers loudly at this news, and then nips off to the pub for a celebratory gin. I start to wonder if he's telepathic as well as telekinetic when Andrew's next text makes clear that his thoughts have also turned to alcohol:
"No idea when next train's coming & it's too bloody cold to wait on station. Going for drink in bar."
Oh, dear. This won't end well. The Boss should never be allowed to combine alcohol and train travel but, when I try to phone him to remonstrate, he's turned his bloody mobile off. I don't hear anything more for a good few hours, and we are just about to lock up when the phone starts to ring.
"Leave it," says Greg, who has already put his coat on, and is waiting in the doorway.
"Can't," I say. "It's the bloody private line. Probably his Lordship. You go, and I'll lock up as soon as I've got him off the phone."
Greg waves goodbye, as I pick up the receiver.
"Molly," says Andrew, in a very loud voice. "I'm on the train."
"Ah, right," I say. "Don't shout, though. You sound like Dom Joly."
"I'm not shouting. And who's Don Jorrey?"
Oh, bloody hell. Doesn't Andrew get the simplest cultural reference? And, if that's not shouting, then my name's Igor and I am a singing postman. Which might actually help in situations where you know there's a rant coming, but you can't do anything to prevent it. If I started yodelling about brotherly love, that'd probably stop The Boss in his tracks.
But I don't know any Russian songs - except for this, which probably doesn't count - so I have no option but to sit silently while Andrew yells about the incompetence of Network Rail, the Travel Information Office, and Philip Hammond MP. He doesn't award Mr Hammond his *Rt. Hon, either.
When he finally pauses for breath - or for what sounds rather like a hiccup - I grab my opportunity.
"Andrew, is there anyone else in the compartment with you?" I say.
"Yes," he says. "A load of businessmen who look like bloody bankers and Jon Tiverton from the Northwick Daily Press."
"Well, then, for goodness' sake stop swearing," I say. "And lower your voice! They're probably all journos who are writing down everything you say. Think about what's just happened to Vince Cable."
"Can't hear you," yells Andrew, even louder than before. "But remind me tomorrow never to support this fucking train operator's application for the rail franchise again.
As I sigh and put the phone down, I'm sure I can still hear him shouting: "Bloody wankers."
Well, they say you can take a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Or even pull his own damned chariot, now I come to think of it.
*House - House of Commons, which rises for the Christmas Recess today, to the joy of constituency staff everywhere.
*Irony - see above statement.
*Rt. Hon - Right Honourable. See here for clarification, as I can't be bothered to explain after the day I've had.
Sunday, 12 December 2010
Missing: One Wife, Some Photos And That Thing Commonly Known As A Sex-Life
Thank God Connie's coming home for Christmas. At least that'll mean that Max won't be able to keep on sleeping in her room whenever he's in a mood with me. He did it again last night, after I referred to Bambi in a tone he didn't like.
When he gets up this morning, he cooks a full English breakfast - but only for him and Josh. I'm left with crumpets, which I can only assume is Max's way of telling me something. Irony's always been his thing.
Things don't get any better when he decides to upload the photos he took at the Christmas meal.
"Can I use your laptop?" he says. "I promised the girls I'd get the pictures onto Facebook today. They can't wait to see them."
"Neither can I," I say. Max isn't the only one who can do irony.
When he's finished, I sneak a look at his Facebook page. Bambi's got there before me and has already clicked "like" on all the photos in which she appears - which is most of them. She doesn't look half as cute wearing the fake moustache she got in the cracker as she thinks she does.
Shirley Bassey's there too, and the cuckoo, and even Max's boss has been captured, along with his boyfriend. In fact, everyone has made the cut - except me. There are no photos of me at all. Maybe I really was as invisible as I felt?
Sometimes, there's no substitute for an ill-considered revenge attack. As soon as Max goes off to Sainsburys, I look up his password, then sign back in to his Facebook page and delete all the photos of Bambi. Take that!
I feel great for all of thirty seconds before I start to panic about what Max is going to say when he finds out what I've done. Probably something about me being supposed to be a grown-up. Unlike bloody Bambi.
It might be an idea to make myself scarce before he returns, so I go into town to try to do some Christmas shopping. I can't put it off any longer, though I'd really like to. I'm becoming more bah, humbug by the day.
This is mainly due to that infuriating new thing on Facebook showing how many "sleeps" there are until Christmas. All the friends I'd previously thought of as adults are posting these damned updates every five minutes, while I'm getting increasingly tempted to go and murder them in their bloody sleep.
How come they've all got enough money to be looking forward to Christmas? So many people haven't, that you'd think those who have would show some bloody restraint. I'm expecting a rush of suicidal phone calls from constituents if all these "perfect Christmas" programmes and adverts keep on much longer.
As for me, I haven't a clue what to buy anyone, and barely any money either - which rules out all the things that Max and Josh might want. What is it with men and expensive gadgets?
I wish everyone was as easy to buy for as Connie, who still gets almost as excited by the process of unwrapping as by the gift inside it but, instead, the over-extended extended family are even more of a nightmare than Max and Josh.
Dad sends me an email saying that he doesn't want anything other than his "lovely" Porn-Poon, so that's really bloody helpful. When she phones this evening, Dinah's no more impressed than I am.
"So, everything else is Dad's life is disposable, then," she says. "Apart from the Thai bride."
"Ah," I say. "So he told you that she was all he wanted for Christmas, did he?"
"Yes," she says. "And if he thinks I'm going to contribute to that, he's got another think coming."
"What do you mean, Dinah?"
Now I'm confused. I thought Dad was just doing the over-sentimental thing he always does when he gets a new woman.
Dinah huffs as if I am an idiot, then says,
When he gets up this morning, he cooks a full English breakfast - but only for him and Josh. I'm left with crumpets, which I can only assume is Max's way of telling me something. Irony's always been his thing.
Things don't get any better when he decides to upload the photos he took at the Christmas meal.
"Can I use your laptop?" he says. "I promised the girls I'd get the pictures onto Facebook today. They can't wait to see them."
"Neither can I," I say. Max isn't the only one who can do irony.
When he's finished, I sneak a look at his Facebook page. Bambi's got there before me and has already clicked "like" on all the photos in which she appears - which is most of them. She doesn't look half as cute wearing the fake moustache she got in the cracker as she thinks she does.
Shirley Bassey's there too, and the cuckoo, and even Max's boss has been captured, along with his boyfriend. In fact, everyone has made the cut - except me. There are no photos of me at all. Maybe I really was as invisible as I felt?
Sometimes, there's no substitute for an ill-considered revenge attack. As soon as Max goes off to Sainsburys, I look up his password, then sign back in to his Facebook page and delete all the photos of Bambi. Take that!
I feel great for all of thirty seconds before I start to panic about what Max is going to say when he finds out what I've done. Probably something about me being supposed to be a grown-up. Unlike bloody Bambi.
It might be an idea to make myself scarce before he returns, so I go into town to try to do some Christmas shopping. I can't put it off any longer, though I'd really like to. I'm becoming more bah, humbug by the day.
This is mainly due to that infuriating new thing on Facebook showing how many "sleeps" there are until Christmas. All the friends I'd previously thought of as adults are posting these damned updates every five minutes, while I'm getting increasingly tempted to go and murder them in their bloody sleep.
How come they've all got enough money to be looking forward to Christmas? So many people haven't, that you'd think those who have would show some bloody restraint. I'm expecting a rush of suicidal phone calls from constituents if all these "perfect Christmas" programmes and adverts keep on much longer.
As for me, I haven't a clue what to buy anyone, and barely any money either - which rules out all the things that Max and Josh might want. What is it with men and expensive gadgets?
I wish everyone was as easy to buy for as Connie, who still gets almost as excited by the process of unwrapping as by the gift inside it but, instead, the over-extended extended family are even more of a nightmare than Max and Josh.
Dad sends me an email saying that he doesn't want anything other than his "lovely" Porn-Poon, so that's really bloody helpful. When she phones this evening, Dinah's no more impressed than I am.
"So, everything else is Dad's life is disposable, then," she says. "Apart from the Thai bride."
"Ah," I say. "So he told you that she was all he wanted for Christmas, did he?"
"Yes," she says. "And if he thinks I'm going to contribute to that, he's got another think coming."
"What do you mean, Dinah?"
Now I'm confused. I thought Dad was just doing the over-sentimental thing he always does when he gets a new woman.
Dinah huffs as if I am an idiot, then says,
"F*cksake, Molly, don't you know anything? Dad has to pay the bar Porn-Poon works at by the hour or day or whatever to be able to 'live' with her while he's in Thailand. It probably costs more than he gets from his pension, given how long he's been out there this time."
"Oh," I say. "Ah. Well - I'm not paying for that, either, then."
Why should I buy sex for my father when I'm not even getting any myself?
After Dinah rings off, it occurs to me that, not only is my marriage a sex-free zone, but so is my supposed affair. Two men on the go - and no sex with either of them, unless you count the odd hastily-typed virtual encounter with Johnny. Which I don't.
This is a hell of an achievement. No wonder Max is feeding me crumpets in an ironic fashion: I am quite patently hot stuff.
"Oh," I say. "Ah. Well - I'm not paying for that, either, then."
Why should I buy sex for my father when I'm not even getting any myself?
After Dinah rings off, it occurs to me that, not only is my marriage a sex-free zone, but so is my supposed affair. Two men on the go - and no sex with either of them, unless you count the odd hastily-typed virtual encounter with Johnny. Which I don't.
This is a hell of an achievement. No wonder Max is feeding me crumpets in an ironic fashion: I am quite patently hot stuff.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
Learning Difficulties - (Grand)Parental Style. Hopefully Not An Omen.
Max has decided to go on a flying visit to Sam's overnight, as he says this is likely to be the last weekend off he'll be allowed before Christmas. He doesn't invite me, but when I look a bit unimpressed, he says,
"You could have come if you'd wanted to. I thought you'd like a weekend to yourself. You can catch up on all that woman stuff you don't like me to see you doing."
Is that a hint that I should have another go with the hair removal wand? Or is it just an excuse? Whichever it is, there doesn't seem much point in arguing, so I wave Max goodbye, and then decide to go for a wander around Primark.
Bloody, bloody Christmas. Why does it have to start so early? The florist I pass on my way into town still has pumpkins piled up in the window, but now they're swathed in Christmas tree lights. Talk about trying to cover all bases. I bet there'd have been hearts in there somewhere, too, if I'd stopped for a better look.
My blood pressure always goes up at the mention of the so-called festive season. Or, at least, it does these days. I didn't used to mind it when the children were young, despite the inevitable Christmas morning fight that would break out between Connie and Josh within five minutes of them waking.
This was usually about ten minutes after Max and I had gone to bed, but watching the kids open their stockings was such fun, even if Josh did get a bit stressed.
Connie's obsession with laboriously un-peeling every bit of Sellotape and folding the wrapping paper as if it were an origami masterpiece - before she even looked at the present - almost drove him into a frenzy. Josh has always been a fan of immediate gratification.
He would rip his presents open as fast as he could, then cram anything remotely edible into his mouth - including an unshelled Brazil nut that he confused with a piece of Chocolate Orange on one memorable occasion. He'd almost always need to be sick by about 10:00am. Or hospitalised. (Maybe not quite as much has changed as I thought.)
Now Christmas just isn't the same. Well, the fun's gone, though the tedious bits remain exactly as they were. I still have to write one hundred and sixty-four Christmas cards every year - another dubious benefit of having an over-extended extended family.
And why do wives automatically become responsible for buying, writing and sending cards to their husband's family too? That wasn't at all what I meant when I said, "I do." Five million years ago.
Top of the enthusiasm-killers is definitely the "Who gets which parent?" question, though. Dinah's already on the case when she phones in the evening.
"You having Gary Glitter for Christmas, if he comes back from Thailand before then?" she says. "He already sounds a bit bored."
"Well, even he probably can't have sex twenty-four hours a day," I say.
"Not without spending all his pension on Viagra, anyway. So - are you going to invite him?"
"What?" I say. "Dinah, it's not my turn. I did it last year. Why can't he come to you?"
"He's too annoying." I suppose that's undeniable, but even so...
"And he hates my kids," Dinah continues. "He will insist on calling Jake Damian."
"Damian?" I say.
"From The Omen. Dad thinks it's bloody funny, but I don't appreciate him looking through Jake's hair every five minutes, and saying he's only trying to find the number 666."
Dinah inhales, then carries on:
"And Dad always picks the remote up the moment he arrives and doesn't let it go until he leaves. He won't even let Jake watch CBeebies, for God's sake. How can you expect a four-year-old to appreciate Rugby Sevens or The Terminator?"
She's got a point there. Whenever Dad comes to stay with us, he insists on having the TV on all the time. As far as anyone can tell, there appears to be no reason for this, except to allow him to change channels. Every thirty bloody seconds.
"Yeah, what is wrong with him?" I say. "I thought Josh was going to have a coronary by Boxing Day. We didn't manage to watch a single film all the way through."
"It's ADHD," says Dinah. "As witnessed by his serial marriages."
I really hope that's not an omen. Max is easily-distracted - especially by naked women - and aren't there more divorces over Christmas than at any other time of year?
"You could have come if you'd wanted to. I thought you'd like a weekend to yourself. You can catch up on all that woman stuff you don't like me to see you doing."
Is that a hint that I should have another go with the hair removal wand? Or is it just an excuse? Whichever it is, there doesn't seem much point in arguing, so I wave Max goodbye, and then decide to go for a wander around Primark.
Bloody, bloody Christmas. Why does it have to start so early? The florist I pass on my way into town still has pumpkins piled up in the window, but now they're swathed in Christmas tree lights. Talk about trying to cover all bases. I bet there'd have been hearts in there somewhere, too, if I'd stopped for a better look.
My blood pressure always goes up at the mention of the so-called festive season. Or, at least, it does these days. I didn't used to mind it when the children were young, despite the inevitable Christmas morning fight that would break out between Connie and Josh within five minutes of them waking.
This was usually about ten minutes after Max and I had gone to bed, but watching the kids open their stockings was such fun, even if Josh did get a bit stressed.
Connie's obsession with laboriously un-peeling every bit of Sellotape and folding the wrapping paper as if it were an origami masterpiece - before she even looked at the present - almost drove him into a frenzy. Josh has always been a fan of immediate gratification.
He would rip his presents open as fast as he could, then cram anything remotely edible into his mouth - including an unshelled Brazil nut that he confused with a piece of Chocolate Orange on one memorable occasion. He'd almost always need to be sick by about 10:00am. Or hospitalised. (Maybe not quite as much has changed as I thought.)
Now Christmas just isn't the same. Well, the fun's gone, though the tedious bits remain exactly as they were. I still have to write one hundred and sixty-four Christmas cards every year - another dubious benefit of having an over-extended extended family.
And why do wives automatically become responsible for buying, writing and sending cards to their husband's family too? That wasn't at all what I meant when I said, "I do." Five million years ago.
Top of the enthusiasm-killers is definitely the "Who gets which parent?" question, though. Dinah's already on the case when she phones in the evening.
"You having Gary Glitter for Christmas, if he comes back from Thailand before then?" she says. "He already sounds a bit bored."
"Well, even he probably can't have sex twenty-four hours a day," I say.
"Not without spending all his pension on Viagra, anyway. So - are you going to invite him?"
"What?" I say. "Dinah, it's not my turn. I did it last year. Why can't he come to you?"
"He's too annoying." I suppose that's undeniable, but even so...
"And he hates my kids," Dinah continues. "He will insist on calling Jake Damian."
"Damian?" I say.
"From The Omen. Dad thinks it's bloody funny, but I don't appreciate him looking through Jake's hair every five minutes, and saying he's only trying to find the number 666."
Dinah inhales, then carries on:
"And Dad always picks the remote up the moment he arrives and doesn't let it go until he leaves. He won't even let Jake watch CBeebies, for God's sake. How can you expect a four-year-old to appreciate Rugby Sevens or The Terminator?"
She's got a point there. Whenever Dad comes to stay with us, he insists on having the TV on all the time. As far as anyone can tell, there appears to be no reason for this, except to allow him to change channels. Every thirty bloody seconds.
"Yeah, what is wrong with him?" I say. "I thought Josh was going to have a coronary by Boxing Day. We didn't manage to watch a single film all the way through."
"It's ADHD," says Dinah. "As witnessed by his serial marriages."
I really hope that's not an omen. Max is easily-distracted - especially by naked women - and aren't there more divorces over Christmas than at any other time of year?
Friday, 11 June 2010
Feeling The Love In The Room
Thank God Greg and I refused to go out for the Christmas meal at lunchtime, as surgery is quite bad enough anyway. I try to persuade Greg to go in with The Boss for a change, on the grounds that I've already been lumbered with doing tomorrow’s supermarket surgery, (not to mention missing a gathering of the glitterati as a result), but Greg is having none of it.
“I am still suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” he says, and takes a long look into a pocket mirror to add an air of verité.
So, as usual on a Friday morning, I have to sit listening to The Boss promising the impossible to each constituent who has an appointment, before he leans back and basks in the love in the room. Later, it’ll be down to me to tell them that what he’s promised is unfeasible, or against regulations, or whatever - and then the constituents will phone him to complain about my attitude.
“I am still suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” he says, and takes a long look into a pocket mirror to add an air of verité.
So, as usual on a Friday morning, I have to sit listening to The Boss promising the impossible to each constituent who has an appointment, before he leans back and basks in the love in the room. Later, it’ll be down to me to tell them that what he’s promised is unfeasible, or against regulations, or whatever - and then the constituents will phone him to complain about my attitude.
Today he assures a single woman with one small child that he can get her a four-bedroomed council house in the same street as her mother, “no problem.” This is despite my resorting to kicking him under the table and making my “Infected” face.
Then Andrew promises a slimy old man who’s just got out of prison for an unspecified sexual offence that, “of course” we can get him a visa for his Thai bride - whom he hasn’t even met yet. (This leads to me fretting about Dad, and briefly losing concentration, so I can’t recall what the next constituent is promised.)
Then Andrew promises a slimy old man who’s just got out of prison for an unspecified sexual offence that, “of course” we can get him a visa for his Thai bride - whom he hasn’t even met yet. (This leads to me fretting about Dad, and briefly losing concentration, so I can’t recall what the next constituent is promised.)
We do have one case that gets me really “exercised,” as The Boss would say, though. A sweet little guy, called Mr Something-or-other-totally-unintelligible, but which sounds like Mr Meeeeurghn, wants us to see if we can get his passport back from the Home Office as he wants to go home to see his family.
He gives his address as the bail hostel on Seymour Road. For Godsake, what is this country coming to, when we put traumatised refugees up in places like that?
Dad would approve though - as long as the refugees weren't young and attractive. And Thai.
After we’ve finished surgery, The Boss heads for the Oprah Room to do an interview with a reporter from the local paper. (Normally, we only use the room when Andrew needs a lie-down after a particularly hard-drinking lunch, as it contains a comfy couch and is soundproof enough to dull the sound of snoring - but this time it’s being used for its proper purpose.)
Greg and I keep our ears pressed to the door as a precautionary measure, only to hear Andrew say that he’s had enough of the red ink letters, and has decided to “speak out.” In response to the reporter’s murmurs of encouragement, he continues:
"I refuse to be intimidated and will not be prevented from opening my mail, which consists of important letters from constituents.”
Local vox pops later applaud his courage. The Boss doesn’t open his letters. I do.
He gives his address as the bail hostel on Seymour Road. For Godsake, what is this country coming to, when we put traumatised refugees up in places like that?
Dad would approve though - as long as the refugees weren't young and attractive. And Thai.
After we’ve finished surgery, The Boss heads for the Oprah Room to do an interview with a reporter from the local paper. (Normally, we only use the room when Andrew needs a lie-down after a particularly hard-drinking lunch, as it contains a comfy couch and is soundproof enough to dull the sound of snoring - but this time it’s being used for its proper purpose.)
Greg and I keep our ears pressed to the door as a precautionary measure, only to hear Andrew say that he’s had enough of the red ink letters, and has decided to “speak out.” In response to the reporter’s murmurs of encouragement, he continues:
"I refuse to be intimidated and will not be prevented from opening my mail, which consists of important letters from constituents.”
Local vox pops later applaud his courage. The Boss doesn’t open his letters. I do.
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