Dreaming of a shite Christmas...

Do you hear that sound? A wet,sucking noise…followed by an explosive POP!

That’s me, that is. No, I'm not firing champagne corks from my love- thoroughfares in a display worthy of Bangkok's finest...No...The sound you hear, is of me…pulling my finger out. I have spent far too much time away from the blog recently…allowing the hum drum catastrophe of everyday life to torture the wits out of me.

It’s safer in the blogosphere. In the blogosphere you don’t run in from outside wearing your wet, muddy boots, only to slip and somersault down the stairs onto the stone kitchen floor…dashing your head against the unforgiving edge of the final step…knocking yourself out. Spouse was touchingly concerned. Sprog was fascinated.Once I had come round, he couldn’t understand why I was crying…and why I couldn’t breathe properly. He started to give me instructions, bless his heart. I’m fine now, thanks for asking, but I’m nursing some rather impressive bruises…which I am so milking. It’s too painful to put my elbows on the table. So, my manners are uncharacteristically impeccable.

We have also had guests. Nice guests. Wonderful guests. The type you don’t want to leave. Rare creatures.

And of course, there’s bloody Christmas just around the corner. I’m not sure I can be arsed with it this year. I know I can’t cancel it…I have a five year old child. I’m not that wicked. But it seems to me, the less money there is to go around, the more guilt lies deep and crisp and even . But little Sprog is a sweet and relatively undemanding child…when asked what he would like Father Christmas to bring, he merely shrugs his shoulders, smiles and replies…’Well…whatever he feels like bringing.’ Which is an excruciating answer. It fills me with tremendous guilt, and gives me absolutely NO help whatsoever with ideas for a present. If he were a horrible little shit, screaming ‘I want a Playstation 3 and if that wanker Santa doesn’t deliver, Rudolf’s glue’ at least I would be able to say ‘No, that’s too expensive and you haven’t behaved nicely enough, you’re getting a whip and top.’

It’s so complicated.

Gift giving between myself and Spouse is far simpler. Minimalist, if you will. Yeah….that’s right….fuck all.

I’m going visiting over Christmas. I’m looking forward to some light relief from life here at Skint and Desperate Central. I’m looking forward to seeing my lovely family. Eating something else other than pasta. Drinking a decent gin and tonic.Some cracking British wit. We are going to see a panto. I think I’m more excited than Sprog about this. He is a little hesitant. He doesn’t like the idea of shouting at people. Whereas of course, I am going to use it as cheap therapy. I’ll just have to make sure I remember there are little ears around and try and keep the swearing to a minimum.

'He’s behind you, you blind twat!'

I can imagine myself getting in to a lot of trouble. Perhaps I should schedule a migraine and save Sprog the embarrassment and Spouse the bail money.

My sister telephoned to advise against buying presents in France, because all the shops in Blighty were discounting like crazy. Apparently, you can buy anything ranging from a Land Rover Defender to a rather nasty leather-look three piece suite...all for £2.50. She then went on to contradict herself and tell me about the £165 ‘bargain’ umbrella she had bought for her husband. Personally, I’d have opted to get wet and fill the kitchen cupboards with pasta. Perhaps that’s just me. I’m afraid the concept of spending money on anything other than essentials is one I find hard to completely jettison. And I don’t understand why he needs an umbrella. He’s the most sedentary slug of a man, he’s only ever outside between the car and the front door. How wet can you get in three paces?

Anyway, dear blogchums. I hope that you enjoy a peaceful and happy Christmas full of love, joy and chocolate. I have written to Lapland and asked Mr Claus to fill up his sack with used readies. If he comes up trumps, I’ll be ushering in 2009 with lobster. If he ignores my request, it’ll be fecking fusilli again. Whatever, I’m thanking my lucky stars. It’s important to remind yourself at this time of year that things could be a fuck of a lot worse.

Merry Christmas!