Christmas Eve
We are standing at the edge of the drop off car lane at heathrow. The man who is supposed to have come and collected the car is 25 minutes late. We have twice been told he is on his way only then to be told that they don’t even know what terminal we are at. P is weeping tears of frustration. The gate closes in 15 minutes. I am shouting down the mobile telephone connection at the unhelpful man at the parking company. I inform him that if we miss the plane I intend to come and spend Christmas with him.
We make the plane by the skin of our teeth. I turn to P, sigh, and say “at last the holiday starts”. She lays a clammy palm on my hand and says “I’m going down with a cold”.
We are spending Christmas Eve with P’s sister, K. She is recently separated and her three boys are with their father until Christmas Day. She has been busy organising her first Christmas as a single mum and has had to get her ex to pick up the bicycles she has bought for her boys. It meant him driving the work vehicle round to the bike shop whilst on shift. As his work vehicle is Edinburgh and Lothian Police’s Armed Response car, this leads to some very startled Bike Shop owners. K phones through to pay for the bikes. The owners hesitate to take card details over the phone. K points out that if she intended to defraud them she would be unlikely to send the Police to collect the goods. They see her point.
K and P have a lot of talking to do. I slink into the sitting room and, as stand in man of the house, seize control of a beer and the remote control and allow television to turn my brain to jelly.
Christmas Day
We are in Peebles, a picturesque Borders town. All around the house are fields hard with frost and blurred by fog. The spiders’ webs in the hedgerows look like strings of glass beads. I am crunching down the pavement looking for the Catholic Church. As I am wearing a T Shirt, jumper, body-warmer and wool coat as well as gloves, a scarf and a woolly hat, it is impossible for the locals to tell that I am English (or indeed what sex or race I am) so they are all very friendly. It turns out that K, who has given me directions, has no idea where the Catholic Church is. She has sent me to the site of the former Evangelical Church; now closed for rebuilding. I apologise to God and set off back to the TV.
P meets me at the door. Despite her gathering illness she is in great form having enjoyed the sort of lung-searing icy tramp across the hills with a dog that the Scots thrive on (what’s wrong with cocktails at an early hour in a basement bar?) She wants to go to see her Gran who is in a retirement home a short drive away. I am a little wary. Gran has Alzheimers and, the previous week, had suffered a stroke that nearly carried her away. I agree to go along, expecting trouble. P is in indomitable spirits. As we drive across country there are birds wheeling; finally persuaded to fly south and Parliaments of crows lining the telephone wires looking bitter.
The retirement home is a model of jollity. The staff wear tinsel in their hair and the guests are participating in the festivities to the extent that they are able. Some sit staring, others mumble and a bespectacled nonagenarian called Agnes shuffles about tidying away anything she finds unattended (including the contents of P’s handbag). The nurse in charge informs me ruefully that however afflicted the guests might appear their ability to put away sherry by the mugful seems to be the last skill to wane. Some of them are being wheeled away for an afternoon with a guilt-ridden family but pause to look wistfully at the shrimp cocktail starter they are missing out on.
I spot Granny B. She is frozen in an apparent attempt to stand up. Her eyes are vacant as a result of sedation and her palms are pressed flat on the seat. Her legs are like sticks in their trousers and she smiles unwaveringly, her dentures perfectly regular and white. She no longer wears her hearing aid. P drops to her knees and grabs her grandmother’s hands. “Hello Granny, how are you?” she asks. Gran’s hands writhe in hers. She repeats the question. Gran pulls her hands free, her smile fixed, her eyes adrift. P’s eyes fill with tears. She looks at me, asks me to sit with her Gran and runs from the room. I sit down and hold Gran’s hand and gesture to a nurse. Between us we establish she wants to change her trousers as they have foodstains on them. She is helped away. P returns having been found and comforted by the staff. She has been administered a dose of hot tea; the British miracle drug.
P’s parents arrive. They are practised at talking to Gran and ask her who is visiting her. Gran says “P” in a whisper and my heart breaks in gratitude. It is a small thing but the consolation it brings P is immediate and immense. I talk to P’s dad and it is plain that for all the love P’s parents have for Gran they would rather she passed away. “She could go on for years like this” he told me in a worried tone. For the record, rather than put me in a home, sneak up behind me and shoot me.
By the time we are home, the boys are back. J is playing with Nintendogs whilst his actual dog, Holly, leaps about in front of him trying to get his attention. The two younger boys, D and W see me, point, shout “It’s the tickley man” and then jump in turn onto my bollocks for the next 4 and a half hours.
The Christmas meal is fantastic. I munch through balls of stuffing, little sausages, parsnips and slices of turkey wondering idly (having read too many US blogs) what a Turducken tastes like. Once the meal is over, I retire to the sitting room where the boys resume their insistent attempts to emasculate me with their booted feet. P’s Mum, meanwhile, is having her usual Christmas duel with the television. At one end of the misty champs is the huge widescreen which is projecting the sights and sounds of the magical world of Master Harry Potter. I have little idea what the bespectacled wizardling is up to because P’s Mum, as ever, is winning. She is keeping up an endless stream of shouted banality “THOSE CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS ARE NICE. WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT THEY CAME FROM IKEA? THEY ONLY DO THEM IN RED I SUPPOSE. MY TEA IS HOT. WHAT A NICE MUG. DO YOU LIKE YOUR PRESENTS CHILDREN? OH DEAR MY TEA HAS GONE COLD.”
At about 6pm I begin to feel it is all a bit much and sneak upstairs to read. My friend S gloatingly texts me from Whistler to tell me that there has been 45 cms of fresh powder snow and that he has an evening of drinking micro-brewed beer and eating nachos with boarding babes ahead of him. At first I am jealous but then it occurs to me that if I am trapped, I am at least trapped in an embrace: the embrace of a family at Christmas, all trying as best they can, not just to love one another but to let that love show a little. Painful though the constant stamping on my bollocks may be, the boys plainly like me and, I might as well admit it, I like them; snot-covered faces and blood-spattered boots and all. That is why I have tried this Christmas to pass on a little wisdom. The boys now know what “bollocks” means; that Brussel sprouts make you fart and how to swallow air and make yourself belch. I don’t suppose that’s the spirit of Christmas but frankly who cares?
You are so kind and so civil to pull me back together after making me cry. Belch jokes? Fart jokes? I can now blink back my tears and carry on.
Have a merry one, Moobs.
I don’t see why that isn’t the spirit of Christmas… it sounds great to me. 🙂
Merry Christmas, Moobs.
Quite frankly, Moobs darling, I think your Christmas sounds delightful! Thanks for your kind words at my site. I appreciate them and look forward to the Christmas when the craziest thing that happens is that someone teaches Avery the meaning of bollocks.
Trapped by an embrace… a beautiful take on family.
Thank you for sharing that.
It made me very wistful for Christmases past.
This year was sort of a non year and we are feeling a bit down about it all..mum and me anyway.
I have been sick, which didn’t help.
Oh and my cousin was supposed to join the Lothian Armed Response thingie..but his wife was not very keen. But he makes a striking Edinburgh bobby.
I got a lovely calendar of Scotland this year.
And why do young boys try to pound the living daylights out of grown men’s nards???
Lovely as ever, Moobs. Sounds like you had Christmas sorted – so here’s wishing you a very happy new year as well x
Missing car collection men, ill wife, blasting television, beer, brain turned to jelly, totering toward insanity Grandmother, mashed bollocks, and a delicious meal – yep that sounds like Christmas.
Send me your mobile number – we’re due for 2 more feet of snow. I’ll text you and you can come shovel snow…. or come for a visit… I’ll buy the beer. BroLo is here for a while….
Bollocks… It’s my new favorite word.
What a great husband you are, Moobs. You always leave me wanting to hug your wife tightly.
May you and P have as spirited a new year as your Christmas, Moobs… minus the stomping on the bollocks, of course.
I will have to share the “bollocks” story with my husband! My son constantly makes a game of doing the same to him! Sounds like you had a lovely holiday! Thanks for sharing!
Catherine, the work ‘Bollocks’ is so terribly British. We love it.
Can’t imagine any American using the word and it sounding quite right – but go with our blessing and try it out. Let us know.
Bollocks means testicles, but we use it to mean ‘rubbish’ as in ‘Don’t talk bollocks”. Or simply “Bollocks!!” Wonderful. xx
You talking about eating balls of stuffing, little sausages, parsnips and slices of turkey makes me yearn for ye olde English Christmas. I have never eaten a turducken but have had the misfortune of trying a tofukey, a turkey made of tofu. All I can say about that is, never again. By the way Moobs, I have tagged you!
Lovely one, Moobs.
The chatter had me howling.
I have eaten baskets and baskets of brussel sprouts and could power my own vehicle at this point.
Pray for me and send air freshener.
Good god, man. You are such a good writer. What’s this other job thing you have? Barrister or some such? Scrap it and do the writing full-time. Honestly. The world can live just fine with one less attorney, but it always needs one more great writer.
What a beautiful post, Moobz. A couple of things:
1) I had my first taste of Turducken this Christmas. Tasted like chicken.
2) From now on, will we be referring to you as ‘The Tickley Man’? Sounds a little pervy, but it’s up to you.
Happy New Year!
Lovely post. And by the sound of it, a loving family.
Happy New Year. You are brilliant.
So glad I found you in 2006 you have made me cry, you have made me laugh and you have made me feel at home in blogland.
You come to my home so often, we share a coffee ever so often,sometimes we have a glass of wine… It is odd that we have never met…and yet we have…
Thank you thank you thank you…
Happy Happy New Year Dearest Moobs and Dearest P.
every child should have such an uncle! hope p is better. glad you enjoyed the book. may your 2007 be wondrous.
x
Wow. Is it too late to return my Christmas for one like yours?
Sounds like it was merry; happy new year!!
Just say no to brussel sprouts and yes to more beer. Sounds like you have a fun-filled holiday adventure. Hugs to P as I know what she is going through.
Happy 2007!
As always a marvelously written post! Merry Merry moobz!
Moobs you need to know that I read your posts and then tell E about them while we cook. It goes like this…. “…oh and you know what Moobs wrote today… you should read it…”
That sounds like a good time. The oldies are always mental. U make me laugh so much
I think you sound like a great uncle ! lol Happy Christmas and Merry New Years to you and yours …
I toasted the New Year with some fine wine I got from a really great guy I met here in blog land … Thanks Moobsy!
and thanks for all the great stories you’ve shared
I would have thought all those layers would have pointed you out as a softy from south of the border to the locals. Is it only in the north-east of England that they consider anything more than a vest and t-shirt to be too much clothing?
Excellent, Moobs…excellent. Outstanding, actually.
I was in tears when Gran remembered P’s name and then you rescued me with the 4 1/2 hours bit of bollocks-stomping. Thank you for that.
And Merry Christmas, my friend…a little bit late, but I mean it all the same.
I cried too, at that part, Kevin. So sad.
I did laugh later in the post though. So it all balanced out. Your Christmas sounded luver-ly, Moobs.
Happy New Year moobs. Hope you and P get all that you wish for.
You “munched through balls of stuffing.”
Hehehehe…
I’m so childish. 😉
Steve~
ok whatever. i’ve decided you’re officially a blog tease… write something interesting every 2 – 3 weeks… wait until you get enough people commenting then off you go again.
HURUMPH!
emma (momma has headache) is visiting me this weekend so we’re going to send you pervy pics.
maybe THAT will force you to write more often.
Come on Moobs, I know you have to work, and okay some of the cases you are doing may be a matter of life and death, but for crying out loud, we’re waiting for your next post. I have tagged you and I want to know five interesting things about you. And Crankmama and I will send you photos of our ankles and maybe even knees if you comply. That should get the creative juices flowing!