Hello, Best Beloveds! I am sitting on the spare bed upstairs at H’s parent’s house, having a good old festive lurk. Cute Ute the Despoiler is whining about something-or-other, which gives me the perfect excuse to be officially Left In Peace, also, not have to do any table-setting or vegetable-preparation. Sometimes, there is something to be said for a Uterus of Doom.
And I am writing this on H’s iPad. It is… amusing. Also, the autocorrect half fills me with delight, half makes me stabby. I may be brief, therefore.
Item! (why not?) – Christmas Day with H’s family was quiet, mellow, peaceful, and pleasant. I very much hope you all can say something similar, at least about the ‘pleasant’ part. Nobody rowed, nobody wept, we all sat around telling the naffest jokes we could think of, and the gift-giving was restrained and tasteful and delight-inducing. Yay us!
Item – My food issues are very awkward. Or, I am feeling awkward about them. There was the incident of the stale and bendy rice-cakes that had been in the cupboard since the dawn of the Jurassic. Of COURSE they tasted like polystyrene if their best-before date was in June. It’s not an inherent quality of the rice-cake, I pinky-swear. Fresh ones are bland, yes, but crucially, crisp and inoffensive. Also, I would’ve liked some cake. Four varieties of cake being joyously scoffed all around me and I am stuck with fruit salad. Or chocolate. Chocolate would do. Only no one is opening the chocolate boxes because they’ve all had SO MUCH CAKE. I know, I know, super-speshul snowflake problems. Especially as MiL made The Christmas Treat Of My Youth in a special flour-free version. Alas, everyone else is eating it in microscopic quantities and bitching about how rich it is, so MiL thinks I’m just being polite when I lavish well-earned and happy praise on it, and puts it back in the cupboards. Argh. It’s supposed to be rich. Argh argh argh.
Item – And booze! The only thing I can drink is gin in tiny quantities, and everyone else is swilling champagne and burgundy. Of course they are. Of course they SHOULD. It’s bleedin’ Christmas. Apple juice doesn’t have quite the same effect. Argh argh argh.
Item – I was very nearly driven insane by Christmas cards addressed to Mr & Mrs H Hlastname. I can tolerate being called May Hlastname, because not everyone realises I didn’t change my name on marriage, but Mrs H Hlastname? Are you freakin’ kidding me? Have you not MET me? Pinko feminist atheist, yes? The one with the hair and the attitude? And don’t tell me it’s etiquette. Since when is it etiquette to call someone by the wrong name?
Item – The In-Laws have a set of lovely neighbours who have a darling little boy, to whom the In-Laws are rather attached, and who made them a Christmas card and tree ornament with his own fair hands. It’s adorable. And it makes me sad, because the In-Laws so very clearly very much want dear little people to dote on in their lives, and H and his brother have not provided any, and in H’s case, this is my fault. And it’s just sad. My MiL is surrounded by friends who are all happy grandmamas, and she isn’t one, and it’s not fair, and I am sad about it. Obviously, sadder on my own behalf than on hers, but sad for her nonetheless.
Item – This post is very itemy because I keep being interrupted. It is also ridiculously grumpy for someone who is actually having quite a nice, peaceful, festive season. I hereby order myself to cheer the fuck up and quit bitching.
Item – Nevertheless, I would like to be at home right now, in pyjamas, drinking rum toddies and watching Doctor Who (which no one he wanted to watch) or the King’s College nine lessons and carols (grumpily vetoed by BiL), or Swan Lake (too long and ‘intellectual’) or Rutter’s Nativity (ditto) or Rossini’s Cenerentola (oh, for God’s sake, May, shut up).