Christmas Eve, Merry Christmas, Celebration Holiday part 2

Posted by dodo

Hours later at tea-time they reach Granny.

`Here you are at last,’ she cries in fluting reproach, rushing out in her medium-heeled court shoes and wool dress, embracing gingerly as she inhales a waft of dried sick, trying not to wince, as older children tread mud all over the carpet.

Soon they’re all into the obstacle race of family tea and Granny asking if anyone wants sugar, milk, a knife, jam, butter or a piece of Christmas cake. Her son-in-law, who’s got sugar when he doesn’t take it, is wondering how soon he can decently ask Grandpapa for a drink; the older children sit round in silence, already jittery because they can’t monopolise the television and the telephone. There is a scream as the baby attacks the Christmas tree and the floor is soon covered with broken glass.

Over to mid-afternoon at the home fixture. Noel returns in a vile temper, hung over from several office parties, and aware that because of guilt and lack of time he has spent far too much on not very exciting Christmas presents. Seeing the tasteful holly wreath, trimmed with red ribbon and gold-painted kiwi fruits, hanging like a life-buoy on the front door, he wishes he could float away on it to oblivion leaving Christmas behind.

Depressed that he’s not going to see Ms Stress for ten days, the sight of scurrying set-faced Scarlett doesn’t make him any happier. He won’t get any sex this side of New Year. Perhaps he too ought to buy a green plastic container from Woolworth’s to prevent needle drop.

Now, as a final straw, he finds that Nicholas and little Carol are seriously in need of tranquillisers, and that Scarlett has barricaded herself into the kitchen stuffing the turkey, listening to the Festival of the Nine Lessons and Carols from King’s College, which seems to come from a different planet of serenity and light. What can those angelic choristers know of the fever and fret of Christmas?

Noël’s mother-in-law, after her night interrupted by drunken lodgers etc., is having a rest, and his father-in-law wants to know which is the best route back to Petersfield on the day after Boxing Day, and what has happened to the cake tin with Battle Abbey on the lid in which they brought the home-made flapjacks. If only there were a test match to keep him quiet.

The old bugger is now looking at his watch, and saying he’d better go and rouse Mother, as it’s Nearly Time for Tea. Some hope, mutters Noël, thinking of Scarlett, still stuffing in the kitchen.

Noël is dying to get drunk again, particularly as Scarlett’s sister, her fascist husband and their out-of-control children, who are coming to stay for four days, are due any minute — which means that Noël won’t have any pillows on his bed tonight. If only the older generation could get plastered as well, they wouldn’t mind meals always being late.

Hearing screaming, Noël goes upstairs, where his children are killing each other, because Nicholas has eaten the sugar mouse Carol’s teacher gave her for Christmas. Scarlett, having stuffed the turkey, has sneakily bolted upstairs and locked herself into the bedroom to wrap up her remaining presents. She had to grab the opportunity before the Sellotape, which is as elusive as Sir Percy Blakeney, went missing again.

Unfortunately, the Sellotape itself has already been extracted by some child from that contraption with a serrated edge that breaks the tape off where you need it. As a result, it is Scarlett’s teeth which nearly break as the bloody Sellotape ridges, divides and crinkles, and finally merges into the pack, as she cocoons and papooses her presents.

One needs two people to pack presents, reflects Scarlett, as one does to stuff the turkey — or anything really. She has to reopen several of the presents to see what she put in them. She forgot to get any tags, and maddeningly Biro doesn’t show up on that ludicrously expensive dark shiny wrapping-paper. She’s been gift-ripped off again. If only she‘d bought cheap paper, then at least she‘d have a white Santa’s beard, or a snowman’s belly to write on.

Now she’s even run out of paper; but she is not going to risk tin foil after last year when that scatter cushion for Aunt Margery got rammed in the oven by mistake. So she’s reduced to pulling out lining paper from her chest of drawers. At least it’s better than the year she got plastered and wrapped up her own boots by mistake, and nearly had to go to midnight mass in bedroom slippers.

More screams outside; Granny, unable to find the landing light on an urgent trip to the loo, has fallen down the stairs.

Next moment, the door bell rings and Scarlett’s sister and fascist husband and the three monsters arrive at the same time as the log man.

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