Will your Christmas be this good?   A Festive Revelry By Susan Brown

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‘But, Harry, you agreed last year that you would do it.’

‘I can’t remember…’

‘Well it’s a good job I got you to sign this then, isn’t it?’

I picked up the note. My hand was shaking for some reason.

I hereby agree that next Christmas, I will be mother
and do everything that Jane does normally; that includes everything.

Signed
Harry/Harriett.

‘Clear enough Harry?’

‘I suppose so. I must have been drunk.’

‘Well you did have several gins and tonic.’

‘But will the Mother-in-Law From Hell, play up?’

‘Don’t worry about her; she knows you dress–sometimes–well, a lot really– Let’s face it, the whole town knows about you after the ‘incident.’

‘Don’t talk about ‘the incident’. You know it embarrassed me no end and that picture in the papers…’

‘I wouldn’t mind, but when you dress, you look prettier than me. The kids think you look great and remember, the milkman fancies you something rotten when you open the door in a negligee, I’m quite jealous.’

‘Enough, I’ll do it.’

We went to bed in matching pink satin nighties and were soon asleep in each others arms.

~*~

It was a cold night and I wakened after a nasty dream to do with a huge turkey and stuffing.

I got up and looked out of the window. I shivered slightly in my thin nightie.

The snow lay on the ground, all deep and crisp and even (it made me think of a pizza, Deep pan, crisp and even!. The moon was shining brightly, everything looked clean, fresh and bright.

In the little village of Trumphampton there was no noise. It was as quiet as it ever was at two A.M. on a cold winter’s night. For this was Christmas time: a time of peace and good will to all men, women and children. A time when you forget all your troubles, let your hair down and generally go all mushy.

All the carol singers had finished demanding money with menaces, having gone to their homes to count up the loot dreaming, no doubt, of the next scam they can think of to dupe a gullible public. They were all asleep now and I wished I was.

My thoughts kept returning to the note. How could I have agreed to do the Mother thing this Christmas? I promised myself that I would lay off the G&Ts in future.

Our household was typical of houses up and down the country. The children were tucked up in bed dreaming about what presents would be awaiting them the next morning. We, the parents were sleeping fitfully and snoringly awaiting the five o’clock wake-up call from children who usually needed a crowbar to prise them out of their beds. Apart from me of course, wide awake at two in the morning and worried about whether the Yorkshire puddings would rise enough to please the mother-In-Law form Hell.

Our household swells somewhat during the Yuletide season and this year was no exception. Aunts, Uncles, Brothers and Sisters, black sheep and a clutch of Grandparents all descend on the house like vultures picking off a prime leg of gazelle. It is a strange phenomena of the unreal and unearthly time known as Christmas that during its all too brief period we talk to and invite into our homes the most incredibly obnoxious and anti social creatures known to man i.e. the in-laws. My in-laws are Betty and Jim Dalrymple.

Betty Dalrymple’s whole life is devoted to undermining her daughter’s confidence and blaming her for marrying a freak of nature like me; she did not approve of my cross-dressing and she told everyone who would listen that it ‘was not normal and I was silly calling myself Harriett when in a dress and–’ You get the idea.

Jim Dalrymple knows everything about everything and tells everyone about it. He’s seen it, done it, is an expert in it and during a delicate operation could no doubt give a brain surgeon a few tips about it; if asked.

I went back to bed and cuddled up to Jane, she was as warm as toast and after a few minutes I drifted off into a fitful sleep.

And so it came to pass that at five A.M. the kids were awake and, of course, if they were awake they had to make sure we were.

After little Timmy had bounced on my stomach several times, I got the message and got up. Jane stayed in bed for a few minutes and then after being threatened by the family dog who wanted to open her prezzies to, she reluctantly followed me downstairs.

Christmas in the village was like Christmas everywhere. You got up–at an ungodly hour–to watch your darling little ones shout with glee as they tear open presents in just a few frantic seconds that took hours of painstaking wrapping. They then completely ignore the incredibly expensive toys from Argos and proceed to play for hours with the gaudy, crappy and crumpled shrink wrappings they came in. It’s the mother of the household whose lot it is to spend most of the Christmas period in the kitchen preparing the traditional roast meal and this year was no exception. The trouble was, the Mother this year was me and I cursed silently as I surveyed the kitchen and thought about what I had in store for me today.

Needless to say, I was not a happy bunny. I now realised what Jane went through at Christmas.

I kind of wished that I hadn’t put on a posh frock to cook in. I had on a nice frilly apron, but I was getting a bit splashed. My long blond wig was getting in the way and I had to tie it back with a scrunchie and I just knew without looking that my makeup was a mess. What possessed me to glam up at this time of the morning?

Seven A.M. and I was yawning. Breakfast was being consumed by the hungry hoard. I had managed quickly to eat some toast and wash it down with a cup of tea whilst serving up a full English breakfast to the family. But somehow I wasn’t hungry–just knackered already! I had the rest of the day to get through yet. I thought that by that time, they would probably have to collect me in a body bag.

‘God,’ I thought, ‘if this is what it’s like to be the mother of the family, I’m glad that I’m only a part time girl.’

Nine A.M. Whilst being imprisoned in the kitchen, elbow deep in some cooking or washing chore, I thought dark things about the fact that my wife, Jane, was sitting down, enjoying herself watching re-runs of Christmas comedies past on the TV and not lifting a little finger to help her loving spouse–me! And the kids! Could they make much more noise? Why, oh why did we give Timmy a bloody drum kit?

Hence there was much muttering and not a little swearing coming from the kitchen, and would anyone help? No, and if I heard bloody ‘Jingle Bells’ once more…

Three P.M. and so the meal came to pass, two hours late but I was hardly an expert and if they didn’t like it–tough.

It had taken 48 hours to defrost the turkey and a further fifteen minutes for me to extract my chapped hand and the still frozen giblets from the bird’s icy rear end, without any bugger to help me. Two tons of potatoes, carrots, sprouts and other over cooked veggies later, I stopped and made mental note to see the divorce lawyers as soon as possible. The place was so steamed up, that it could have been mistaken for a sauna.

Having spent hours in the kitchen, slaving over a hot stove and cooking enough food to feed a sizeable third world country, I was absolutely gobsmacked to find the mountain of food demolished in quick time by the human equivalent of the locust swarm known as ‘The Family’, but not without a few hiccups on the way.

After the ritual eating of the turkey, complaints about how cold the food was and what’s happened to Granny’s false teeth. It was time for the Christmas pudding. Promises of money hidden within the gooey mass ensured the complete silence of everyone but Granny who was gummily complaining that she can’t eat Christmas pudding without her gnashers. She spent the next ten minutes searching the congealing gravy on her plate in vain for signs of her false teeth.

While all this excitement was going on little Timmy had found a 5p piece and of course promptly swallowed it, causing a minor stomach upheaval on to the tablecloth and the triumphant retrieval of the valued coin.

And so the meal continued: I will pass over the painful reading of the silly jokes in the crackers and the unfortunate incident involving the emission of methane by one of the adults who should have known better. Suffice to say the meal finally ground to a halt under the weight of all the food consumed.

Half past four:

It was then a time beloved by one and all adults. They sat around the TV watching Miracle On 34th Street. The fact that the film had been on the box a dozen times makes not a jot of difference, as immediately the TV was switched on, everyone over the age of 30 went into an alcoholic slumber. This left the kids to go and squabble over each others’ toys.

After running down batteries and failing that, smashing toys, the little darlings went outside in the dark and attempted to break their necks riding their shiny new bikes which were of course two sizes to big for them. The garden was flood lit so the adults could keep an eye on them, though it appeared that parental responsibility was in short supply as I was the only person to keep going out and checking up on things.

I, of course was excluded from any thoughts of siesta because as soon as the dinner was finished and I had to single handedly polished off the mountain known as the washing-up, I had to also start preparing what is to some of the family the highlight of the day, ‘The Tea’.

And so it was now half past six

I had, several times, vainly asked for help but everyone had strangely gone deaf. I shrugged my shoulders wearily in resignation and slunk back to the kitchen.

Mountains of sandwiches had been prepared, with all manner of fillings from anchovy to yellow pickle with a bit of cheese. There were things-on-a-stick, cocktail sausages, pork pies, dips, chicken nuggets etc….

Christmas cake, lovingly made by Jane the previous January was taken out of mothballs and iced with hands shaking from fatigue and the after effects of too many sherries.

After everything was sliced, spread cut up and laid out I went over to the only chair left unoccupied, the one with broken springs and sank into it. At this stage I couldn’t care less. I had had enough. The family, although still engorged from the ritualistic feeding frenzy of dinner, still managed to find room to pack more into their complaining and dyspeptic stomachs.

They devoured the various offerings with the gusto and zeal of the truly greedy and glutinous.
I was too tired and sick of the sight of food to eat and just slumbered in a sort of semi-coma like state, oblivious to the eating, belching and in the case of Granddad, unfortunately smelly gasses emanating from deep within his posterior region.

Jane just looked blissfully happy that, for once, she wasn’t the one to have to do everything at Christmas. She told me later in a fit of guilt that she thought several times that she felt a bit sorry for me, my pretty dress, cream coloured originally, but now peppered with the detritus of the various Christmas meals; but she held back, remembering all the times she had been in the same position as I was now in.

It was now eight P.M.

The younger children were now getting rather tired, having arisen well before the crack of dawn and had now reached that charming state known in the parenting world as ‘playing up’.

Young Timmy started the ball rolling by pulling little Tracy’s pigtail so hard that she screamed loudly and dropped her ice cream down Auntie Daisy’s neck.

Cousin Robert, not to be outdone by Timmy, threw his jelly at Bobby. His aim however was not too good and the quivering mass landed on the face of Mother-In-Law Dalrymple, leaving her for once speechless. All the children started crying and shouting at once, each blaming each other for the atrocities that had occurred.

After a few judicial slaps followed by the blatant bribery of chocolate they eventually agreed to be good.

A strange peace fell on our household, the only noise being little Bobby throwing up in the aspidistra plant pot and Timmy eating the contents of his nose.

At long last it was cartoon time on the TV and the kids were super-glued to the screen. Thank God for cable. The In-laws couldn’t think of any more insulting things to say about us and me in particular and bid us a not-so-fond adieu.

Nine-thirty and I was, hopefully, in the home straight.

Supper was now served and more food was thrown down the overworked gullets of the remaining revellers. Cold turkey sandwiches, sausage rolls, scotch eggs and indescribable things on little wooden sticks were once again served up and eaten with apparent relish. Jelly, blancmange and lumps of cake were strewn around the floor by kids and adults alike. Luckily the pet poodle Poppy was happy to oblige and did a very creditable impression of a Hoover or was it a Dyson, clearing up the mess in ten seconds flat.

I was now on autopilot. Time had appeared to stand still in the kitchen and no sod had even hinted that they were going to help me out. I was shocked that Jane, wife of many years would be so vindictive as to hold me to the promise made under the influence of drink. I cursed the fact that I was wearing heels and my head ached and my stomach felt as if Vesuvius was about to erupt.

I could have cried. When I went to the bathroom for a rare toilet break, I caught site of myself in the mirror. My pretty dress was a mess, my hair looked like a bird had been nesting in it and to cap it all, my makeup was badly smudged and my stockings had several ladders in them.

I desperately wanted to change, but in a fit of nastiness, Jane had locked the bedroom door and had the only key. She told me that as she never had time to change at Christmas and she didn’t see why I should.

The evening was now well advanced. Cliff Richard’s Summer Holiday, a seasonal old favourite was on due on TV.

The kids were finally packed off to bed with the maximum of tantrums and cries of, ‘It’s not fair!’ They eventually go with promises of even more chocolate next morning if they agree to be good and not be sick all over their duvets.

The evening dragged on into the night. Cliff Richard continued to sing along in his converted bus.

One by one the visitors bid a fond farewell, promising to return next year and leaving the semi-conscious me to clear up the mess and the pile of washing up. I toyed with the idea of asking Jane to help but taking one look at her I could tell that my not-so-loving spouse was too inebriated and busy singing along with Cliff to give a toss about helping me.

After taking one look at the incredible pile of plates, cups, saucers, glasses, half eaten scraps of food, dog ends, and other indescribable leftovers, I said in a voice, I think, full of pathos to nobody in particular, ‘Sod it.’

I took the bedroom door key out of the lifeless hand of my wife and went wearily up the stairs flopping on the bed fully clothed.

I vowed sleepily to help Jane next Christmas and not just leave her to do everything. It had been a bit of an eye opener, this Christmas and one I think that I had learned lessons from. One thing we were going to get before next year was a state of the art twelve place setting dish washer.

Before falling into a troubled sleep I groaned as I remembered promising to go to the sale tomorrow to pick up some bargains like Christmas cards, decorations and other festive memorabilia. For, as Jane always said, it’s never too soon to start preparing for Christmas and there was only 364 shopping days to the next fun filled one.

THE END

My thanks go to Gabi for helping me sort this one out!

Please leave comments as it will help cheer up this poor old hack who has to write with a quill by candlelight when the gas meter runs out and the coal burns low.