An overcast Sunday. Been to get the papers, with bread, marmalade, butter, milk, half-a-dozen eggs and a few fulsome belches as I walked, the shopping bag banging idly and insistently against my right calf. The takeaway Saturday night curry with my father lay heavily. He's got a cold. He reckons he caught it from Terry, who also had a sniffle on Christmas Eve. A host of twinkling fairy lights and blue icicle decorations on houses couldn't brighten our dimmed spirits on the way home.
So that's another Christmas ticked off. We had fun, don't get me wrong. It seems churlish to moan. The downsides were the uncomfortable camp bed I drew in the lounge, the mind-numbing tedium of the 0-0 away to Millwall on Boxing Day, despite us looking by far the better team in the second half and the lagoons of booze we all consumed merrily and then regretted in the morning. Tel's attempts to jolly the hangovers away met with irritation until we nipped into a corner shop on Friday morning and bought two four packs of Guinness. Consumed with a nip of port in it, Guinness for breakfast was better than Alka Seltzer. I shudder to think what my liver looks like after the last few days.
I won't bore you with blow-by-blow accounts; you all celebrated much the same, I would imagine. Lots of drink and party food and Christmas lunch at one on Thursday, anointed by the King at 3pm when Christmas pud was threatened and then refused so much it went straight back into the larder, box and all. A distinct lack of fresh fruit, for which Dad made good in Waitrose yesterday. We bought nectarines and plums and pears and lychees and pomegranates and satsumas and posher satsumas with leaves still adorning. And melon for a big Saturday morning fruit salad. Best thing I ate all week.
Terry and Mrs Tel want to leave Halstead in 2026 so this was possibly our last Xmas spent in the diocese. The bungalow was festive enough, but they're on a busy road and the sound of traffic on Christmas Eve afternoon was substantial. Dad and Tel reacquainted their newsagent relationship. although I remember Dad stopped using him for a few years prior to retirement as it was too far to drive for his Times and Independent. I also remember him grumbling about the freshness of Terry's milk and how it never seemed to last longer than a few days before smelling like he'd put an index finger up his arse.
He didn't mind the carousing and the partying though. He normally dislikes constant 80's megamixes, yet there he was, doing a sort of loose 'jig' to Club Tropicana and Too Shy. At 75 years of age, he's certainly gamer than me. The drink helped though. We all retired to bed at 2am on Christmas Day morn, Dad still sprightly. I'd had it, admittedly.
So it's on to a quiet New Year following a day back at work tomorrow (and I can think of nowt I'd rather do less) which should be suitably quiet considering nearly everyone else in my immediate colleague base will still be on leave. I'll be back on Tuesday for the Coventry game fallout, never fear. But old acquaintances can never be completely forgotten, even if Auld Lang Sine will be Dad and I this year and I sort of expect us to have retired to bed long before Jools Holland's Hogmanay and the fireworks on Sydney bridge have been recorded. Getting old. Parties? Bah humbug. I'd rather be in my own bed.... |  |
By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions.
