Christmas shopping? Check.
Christmas cards? Check.
Mail-order presents mail-ordered? Check. Only, there was a glitch in which the website I was ordering several gifts from and my order… disappeared. They emailed me to say they’d got my card details, but not the details of the things I’d ordered, sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry etc. So there was language, bad, fruity, and I re-entered the order, and now the presents won’t get there for Christmas Eve AAAAAAAARGH rage. Anyway. I tried.
Last day of work before the holidays? Check. Managed to crowbar the last few students out of the building only half-an-hour after closing-time, which must be some kind of record. ‘Go home!’ – ‘But we need to finish this!’ – ‘No, you do not. It’s Christmas. Or Hanukkah. Or whatever. Go the fuck home.’ – ‘But you’re not open tomorrow!’ – ‘Quite right. Being human, we too would like a holiday. Thank you for trying. Please leave.’
Wrapping? Well, we have wrapping paper. We have presents. The two are nowhere near each other as yet.
Plan B for when May’s exploding uterus and her washing-up-bowl of vomity doom crash the family dinner party planned on Boxing Day and ruin it for everyone? Not sorted at all. H has adopted a ‘we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it!’ attitude which is making me want to poke him viciously in the kidney with a spoon. Even if, by grace of God etc., I am not throwing up, I will not be in a fit state to join the table, and I will not neither be in a fit state to spend the next few days sleeping on a fold-out sofa-bed in the living-room, which is put away every morning, so I can spend the days, well, I don’t know, actually. How do you suffer acutely and bleed copiously in someone else’s very small house when said house is stuffed to the gunwales with friends-and-relations and, and, get this, there is no sink in the lavatory? So you have to open the door, walk out into the hall, and open another door to go into the bathroom to wash hands. Before you all look at me quizzically and say ‘well?’, remember, I will a) be bleeding like a slaughtered bull at a Mithraic initiation, and b) be putting things up my bottom. I want to wash my hands before I touch doorhandles and certainly before I wonder about the house looking like Sweeney Todd in front of a mixed-biscuit assortment of teenagers, prudish aunts, and strange men, thank you.
Christmas spirit? We’re out of tonic water.
Festive cheer? Oh, shut up.