Yikes, Christmas is upon us, and I haven’t written a word in this column since days were long, gin & tonic could be taken in the garden and I was… still in my forties. Which I’m not. Any more. Age crisis? Hell, I haven’t had time to think about age these past few days, not with all the other catastrophes exploding around me.

On the First Day of (the run up to) Christmas, my hot water went on the blink.

On the Second Day, the central heating boiler joined in the fun.

On the Third Day (in the inevitable seasonal absence of plumbers for above), a nice chap came out to clear a blocked drain, nothing to do with boilers – and discovered the septic tank needed urgent and radical surgery. (Don’t ask).

On the Fourth Day – also entirely unrelated to above – my kitchen floor turned into a small lake, fed by an unseen source buried deep behind my splendiferous and very solid, brand-new, oak and granite kitchen units.

On the Fifth Day, a houseful of guests arrived.

On the Sixth Day, a chimney blocked and the house filled with smoke. And lo, the bloody smoke alarms sang long and mightily in the heavens. Only accessible by dodgy ladder. A detached battery dangles from one still.

On the Seventh Day, my computer hatched a little virus.

On the Eighth Day, my spanking new all-singing, all-dancing, totally amazing electric keyboard (50th Birthday present) had a hiccup and wiped out all the pre-set instructions I’d painstakingly programmed into it for the Egton Village School nativity play. For which I was the one-woman orchestra. Never mind, the tiny angels and shepherds were edibly gorgeous – and getting dewy-eyed over nativity plays is definitely a symptom of middle age.

On the Ninth Day, plague struck. I passed out, and was too weak to so much as unscrew the top of the Lucozade bottle. (Incidentally, I rather resent the way Lucozade has been re-branded a ‘sports drink’. For me, it remains the expensive childhood luxury only doled out if Seriously Ill. And it’s still the only thing I can fancy when feeling lousy).

On the Eleventh Day (the Tenth having been lost in a nauseous haze), and surprised to discover I might live after all, I started wrapping Xmas presents – and found I’d left a bunch of them in the store, two whole weeks ago.

But hallelujah, if I can count today as the Twelfth day, then the said store – dammit, why not give them well-deserved credit? Debenhams – tell ms they still have my little packages safe, so, all in all, I wish you a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS.

And in the New Year I will reflect on half-century blues involving a sudden and alarming aversion to The Archers (after 20-odd years of never missing an ep), and all that kind of tripe.
Have fun.


  posted by Kate @ 6:28:56 PM