I spent yesterday wrapping Christmas presents and bemoaning the fact that I seem to have completely lost my Christmas spirit. This is NOT like me and I’m hoping that it’s just a blip in my customary cheerful ‘goodwill to all women’ disposition rather than it being age related - if it’s that, then I’m doomed.
I told the grumpy old man how I felt - this was a mistake, as he’s such a naturally happy person that he was bound at some point to try to cheer me up.
In the evening I grunted that I was going for my ‘daily wallow’ and sloped off to the bathroom - this is usually a pleasant ritual for me, lasting up to an hour. It’s ‘me time’ with a capital ‘ME’ - I do not like to be disturbed, I play with my bubbles, admire the sparkle of my rings that I place on the side of the bath. Read my book and keep topping up the hot water and ‘wallow’ - ahh, bliss.
Somehow, this doesn’t always register with the GOM and he'll pop in from time to time for a chat, whereby I put my book down and glare at him until he goes away. But last night he surpassed himself - he thought he’d help me get back my ‘Christmas spirit’.
As soon as I'd become engrossed with my latest read [Dan Brown’s - The Da Vinci Code - brilliant] and the water was hot hot hot, I heard the cat meowing at the door, I phoned the GOM.‘Let the cat in please’
‘You've wasted 25p phoning me to let the cat in, I wouldn't have bothered.’
‘I can't relax and enjoy my book if she's meowing under the window.’
I settled back down, topping the water up a bit more. A few minutes later there was a horrible wailing noise coming from downstairs, then it got louder - it was auditory torture! Is he tormenting the cat I wonder?
It was so disturbing that I couldn’t concentrate on my book - which, I might add had just started to cheer me up. After reading the same paragraph five times I gave in and got out of the bath - without my usual ‘water wrinkles’ as I’d barely got damp! Muttering under my breath about not being able to get a minute’s peace. I stomped downstairs in a drippy, bubbly way and demanded to know - ‘WHAT EXACTLY IS THAT BLOODY ROW?’
‘It’s a record.’
‘I’d worked that out, what is it?’
‘The Partridge Family Christmas Album’. [It’s one of those old fashioned black plastic things that needs a turntable and a needle - or a dustbin]
‘Is it actually playing at the right speed 'cos it’s horrible?’
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘Er NO! It’s so bad my ears are trying to build up enough wax to block it out!’
‘Oh, I thought it was alright, but I’ll turn it off if you don’t like it.’
I’ll give him Frosty the bloody snowman. Bah Humbug …