Buddy’s Referendum Diary

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Thursday 23rd June

Today is Referendum day. I have no idea what that means, except that Ladyofthehouse went out for a bit and returned declaring, ‘I have exercised my democratic right! Let’s hope the rest of the country doesn’t cock it up.’

When Beardy said goodnight to me later, he looked relieved. ‘I think it’s going to be okay, Buds,’ he said. ‘Looks as if we’re staying in.’

Of course we’re staying in, you great hairy numpty. It’s night-time. We always stay in at night-time.

Unless I decide to stay out with my girlfriend, Mindy of course. Then we’re definitely out.

 

Friday 24th June

Well. That was a bit of a shock. The Family has run out of TunaFelix and I had to have SardineFelix instead. Beardy looked pale and worried when he gave it to me.

‘It’s not good, Buds. It’s not good at all,’ he said as he put my bowl down.

You’re telling me, mate. Sardines are the food of the devil.

I knew something was wrong because Ladyofthehouse was already out of bed. This isn’t normal.

According to Beardy, Ladyofthehouse ‘doesn’t do mornings’ and ‘you can’t talk to her until she’s had coffee’.

In fact I think she’d been up for a while. After forcing down my sardines I found her staring at the television, shaking her head and repeating, ‘no, no, no, this can’t be happening.’

Smallboy came downstairs and asked what had happened. Ladyofthehouse said that we had decided to Brexit. At first I thought she said ‘breakfast’ and went to wait by my bowl for more food but then Smallboy started to cry and asked if there was going to be a war. Ladyofthehouse gave him a big hug and said, ‘not if I can bloody help it.’

I nudged Smallboy’s legs so that he picked me up. Humans think they’re hugging you but really it’s the other way round.

‘I love you, Buddy,’ he said.

I love you too, Smallboy.

Lovelygirl came down then. Beardy told her about the Brexit and she looked worried. ‘Does that mean I won’t be able to get a job?’ Beardy told her it would be fine whilst looking as if he didn’t really believe it.

I nudged Lovelygirl’s legs so that she picked me up.

‘Oooh Buddy, I love you,’ she said. ‘Will it be okay?’

I love you too, Lovelygirl. And yes, it will be okay, although I’m not entirely sure what ‘it’ is.

Beardy and Ladyofthehouse told the children not to worry and to go and have some breakfast.

After the children had gone Ladyofthehouse started to get cross. ‘Look what they’ve done,’ she cried. ‘Look what they’ve done to my children’s future. Bunch of bloody bastards.’

‘Bastards,’ agreed Beardy, putting his arms around Ladyofthehouse.

I nudged their legs so that Ladyofthehouse picked me up.

I let them hug me for a bit before wriggling onto the floor and going to sit with the children. They need me today.

When Ladyofthehouse came back from dropping Lovelygirl and Smallboy at school, she was even crosser.

‘Well the pound’s gone through the floor, we’ve been sent baskets of muffins by every far right-wing group in Europe and now David bloody Cameron has decided to eff off having gambled the country away in a bid to stop Farage, who is declaring a victory for decent people. Pah! He wouldn’t know a decent person if one stood up in his soup!’

At least I think that’s what she said. All I could do was stare at the floor and wonder how many pounds were underneath it and also, if I might like muffins. They had to be better than sardines.

Ladyofthehouse spent the day cleaning the house and typing very fast, whilst shouting things at the radio and television.

Friday nights are usually a very happy time but everyone seemed glum.

I went out with Mindy. She was worried too. She said that in the Referendum people had either voted to stay ‘in’ or ‘out’ of the EU. She said the EU was a big organisation set up to unite the countries of Europe after the war in order to bring stability and free trade between nations. She said it wasn’t perfect and cost a lot of money but that it brought lots of advantages in terms of free movement, trade, subsidies to poorer areas and a healthy spirit of outward looking co-operation. Mindy is a very knowledgeable cat.

She has a particular interest in the EU fishing policies and is now concerned that fish prices will rise. I don’t care as long as there’s plenty of TunaFelix.

Mindy said that a lot of people had voted ‘out’ due to concerns about migration to this country, which is like other cats coming into your garden. I don’t really like other cats coming into my garden apart from Mindy but then I’m a cat and therefore have limited intelligence. I thought humans were cleverer than that.

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Saturday 24th June

Ladyofthehouse and Beardy are very angry but I’m not sure who with. They have fierce discussions about the things that annoy them.

Ladyofthehouse is particularly angry with all the people who voted to leave but now wished they’d voted to stay. She calls them ‘cockwombles’. This word makes Smallboy laugh until he falls on the floor. Ladyofthehouse says he’s not to use it at school or in front of Grandma.

Beardy is mainly angry with a man called Cameron and another called Boris. There is also a man called Nigel who they dislike but Ladyofthehouse has said that no-one is allowed to speak his name out loud.

 

Sunday 25th June

I am a little bit worried about Ladyofthehouse. She seems to be losing it slightly.

She has taken to strolling round the garden in the early evening (something I enjoy myself), throwing slugs and snails into a flowerpot whilst crying, ‘come here Boris, you fat slimy slug,’ and ‘oh no, Dave, you may have destroyed the country but you’re not eating my Rudbeckia,’ before throwing them all into the big bin and shouting, ‘die, you traitorous scum!’

snail

 

Monday 26th June

Very confusing day which ended up with Beardy declaring that, ‘England were out of Europe’.

Duh, keep up Beardy. That was last week.

 

Tuesday 27th June

Ladyofthehouse has got a cold. She’s very snotty. She is blaming this cold on Boris, although I’m not sure if she means the slug or the man with the funny hair on TV.

She lay on the sofa watching something called Wimbledon today. Ladyofthehouse and Beardy love Wimbledon. It seems to calm them down. I like watching it with them. I like Roger Federer best. He has fantastic eyebrows.

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Wednesday 28th June

Ladyofthehouse seems less angry and sadder now. Today she was watching Cameron on the TV and instead of swearing, she was listening.

She sat down on the sofa as if all her worries were weighing her down. So I jumped up next to her and rubbed my head against hers. She was surprised because I don’t do this very often. ‘Thank you, Buds,’ she said, scratching my head. ‘I needed that.’

What can I say? I’m a very perceptive cat.

Mindy told me later that Ladyofthehouse was probably sad because of the rise in hate crime. She said that as a lot of people voted ‘out’ due to concerns about immigration, it has given rise to the far right thinking that this somehow validates their abhorrently racist views.

Like I said, Mindy is very knowledgeable, whereas humans seem to be increasingly stupid.

 

Thursday 29th June

Ladyofthehouse was angry again, this time because no-one seems to be running the country and they all seem to be arguing about who should do it now that Cameron doesn’t want to.

Apparently Boris was going to try but now a man who Ladyofthehouse calls, ‘the rubber-faced twonk’, has said he wants to but a lady called Theresa may do it too. It’s very confusing.

Ladyofthehouse put Wimbledon on and the Family all sat watching Andy Murray, who reminds me of a cat because he never smiles even though he’s happy.

I stay very close to them. They are calm but I sense they need me. They are always picking me up now and hugging me. I don’t mind. I love them.

I also have a plan to help them. I know exactly who can sort things out and I’m starting the campaign tomorrow.

I think she’ll unite the nation because of her intelligence and political insight, and more importantly ensure that we never run out of TunaFelix again.

Mindy presentation

 

The thrill of the deadline

There’s nothing more thrilling than reaching a deadline, is there? For the organised amongst you, this may involve a gentle jog to the finishing line, a small but heart-felt air-punch and that satisfied sense of a job well done. If you are slightly chaotic, as I am, it’s a bumpy ride. It goes something like this.

A fortnight before the deadline, you are calm personified – a mixture of Mary Berry and Barack Obama – cool, twinkling, confident.

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A week to go and you take on the air of Corporal Jones from Dad’s Army, muttering ‘Don’t Panic’, under your breath in a less soothing, more hissy mantra.

You then hurl yourself into the task at hand. You work late into the night (never first thing – there isn’t enough coffee in the world that could jump-start you into early-morning writing). So working late is the only option but it’s okay because it means a glass of wine, a bowl of Kettle Chips and an episode of Modern Family as a reward.

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See? Being a night-owl pays big time, my friends. You can’t be hitting the Chablis at ten in the morning. It may have worked for Hemingway but then he never had to do the afternoon school-run.

Then we reach the day before the deadline. This day is oddly calm. The hard work is done. There is a niggling panic that you have lost control of the book somehow, that it doesn’t hang together but then you remember that it’s hard to keep the detail of ninety thousand words in your head and the panic subsides. This day mainly consists of ticking off items on the slightly odd final check list such as:

–          Does Dan have size ten or size twelve feet?

–          Check number of times the word ‘wow’ is used & delete accordingly.

–          Decide whether to keep or remove the new vicar.

It’s not your average ‘to do’ list but it all seems vitally necessary during the intense adrenaline-pumped moments before you attach the manuscript to an e-mail and send it to your editor.

Finally, the moment does arrive. You simply cannot put it off anymore. The manuscript is saved for the final time. You send it off into the world, like a baby bird on its first flight and hope that it doesn’t crash into the first window it reaches.

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You hold your breath and then realise that breathing is important and exhale. You stare at your screen for a moment and feel quite tired. Your brain is as weary as a toddler after an hour in a ball pool. Take a break, brain. You’ve worked hard. You need a rest.

The day afterwards is lovely. You emerge into the world, blinking at the light – a bewildered writing mole. There is no writing to do today. You have earned a rest.

It’s a day to tick off some of those things you don’t have time to do because you are writing, like communicating with your family and working out why the fridge makes that weird whining noise, but only in the afternoons.

Important stuff.

You write a shiny new ‘to-do’ list. It doesn’t seem quite as writerly and creative as the manuscript check-list. It contains items like:

–          Sort e-mails (2 years’ worth)

–          Check utilities bills

–          Phone the Inland Revenue

You give it your best shot. After a day of clenching your teeth as you try but fail to find someone from HMRC who wants your tax and weeping as your Yahoo Mail page crashes every time you try to archive something, you have an epiphany. Existing in the real world is too hard and actually, really quite boring.

Immediately, you know what you need to do. You e-mail your editor with a request and she is delighted to oblige.

The next day, you’re one happy camper. You sit at your computer with a fresh sense of purpose and a manic grin on your face as you type the words, ‘Chapter One.’

You have a new deadline. All is well.

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It’s all in the name

There are many things I like about writing books. The staring out of the window is lovely. The drinking coffee whilst staring out of the window is also good.

However, when it comes to actually writing the words down onto the page (fortunately I like this bit too), one of my favourite parts is coming up with names and the more books I write, the more I enjoy this particular challenge.

Because it is a challenge as the writers amongst you will probably agree. You have to be very careful with names. Very careful indeed.

One misplaced Valerie and your old school-chum from thirty years back will be on your doorstep demanding to know why she’s been cast as a serial killer with a penchant for knitting woolly-faced effigies of her victims (Crime writer friends, feel free to have that one on me. You’re welcome)

knitted doll

When I wrote Not Quite Perfect, I was a complete name-giving rookie. I named most of my characters after my family and friends. In my defence, the whole novel began as a creative writing experiment but when it got more serious, the names sort of stuck. My sister-in-law still wants to know why my sixty-something bossy mother character is based on her (stop being bossy and I’ll tell you) whilst my mother-in-law was sorely disappointed to only play a walk-on role. You can’t please all of the people or indeed any of the people, especially if you’re related to them.

It may seem like the easiest thing in the world to give a character a name but names are tricky. You don’t always get them right first time. One of the main characters in Dear Lizzie was called Barney right up to the last moment when I suddenly realised that his name was Joe. Just like that. The poor man had been wandering through my novel, dealing with quite a lot of terrible things and I hadn’t even had the decency to give him the right name. Sorry Barney. I mean Joe.

Above all, you can have fun with names. You can play with them, you can
re-arrange them, you can invent completely new ones and stretch them into whatever you need them to be.

It’s basically the writer’s equivalent of Play-Doh and I’ve always loved Play-Doh (particularly the smell).

When I was writing Life or Something Like It last year, I was struggling with a name for a key male character. I was sharing this issue with my family over dinner, when my eight-year-old son fixed me with a look.

‘I have three ideas for you, Mum.’

‘Okay,’ I replied uncertainly. My son doesn’t usually offer much input regarding my books. Inspiration? Droves. Input? No. But into the mouths of gift horses, I will not look. It’s one of my rules.

‘Go on.’

‘First idea – Chris P. Bacon.’

Guffaws around the table. A raised eyebrow from me. ‘And the next?’

‘Terry Fied. Although that’s mainly for spooky stories,’ he said sagely.

‘Yes, this isn’t really a spooky book.’

‘Shame,’ he shrugged. ‘All right. How about, Robin Banks?’

‘It’s a fantastic name but maybe better suited to a book featuring a criminal?’

‘Probably,’ he said. ‘Well I can’t really help you. Sorry Mum.’

Never mind, son. Name-giving is an art. I’m no expert but I’m learning.

In my opinion, Charles Dickens is the top dog when it comes to names. There’s never a poll of best character names that doesn’t feature one of his.  I mean, I was pretty proud of Cat Nightingale as the name for my reluctant heroine in Life Or Something Like It, but Uriah Heap is pure unbridled brilliance.

Ironically, my favourite name in the book I’ve just finished isn’t that of a person. It’s the name of the road on which they live – Hope Street, based on the south-east London community in which I’ve lived for large parts of my life.

I like to think that Charles Dickens might have approved or very likely come up with something better. Like I say, I’m learning.

So I thought it would be appropriate at this stage to consider my favourite character names. Here’s a short but by no means exhaustive list.

  1. Reginald Jeeves and Bertie Wooster

We don’t really need the first names do we? Perfect names, perfect characters, perfect stories. That is all.

jeeves and wooster

  1. Eva Delectorskaya

William Boyd’s heroine from Restless. He has Dickens-like talents for names. This one sticks with me largely because I can barely pronounce it but I also love Nat Tate, Logan Mountstuart and Amory Clay.

  1. Huckleberry Finn

If you wanted a name to sum up the character of a chicken-stealing, grubby rascal then you couldn’t do much better.

  1. Veruca Salt

Children’s books lead the way with excellent names and Roald Dahl is probably the master. Mind you, with Charlie Bucket, Augustus Gloop, Willy Wonka and Mike Teavee all in one story, he pretty much cleaned up.

  1. Abel Magwich

Really, this entire list should be peopled by Charles Dickens’ characters but this meaty villain from Great Expectations wins for me. Any writer who created Dick Swiveller (stop sniggering at the back), Merry Pecksniff, Kit Nubbles, Pleasant Riderhood and Woolwich Bagnet as secondary character names should be crowned king of all the names forever.

abel magwich

I would love to hear your favourites if you’d like to leave a comment.

Right, I’m off to think up a name for an eighty-something female ex-librarian with a passion for cryptic crosswords. Maybe Ivy or Joan? Mind you, I’ve always liked Olive…

 

Dear Victoria Wood

Back in January, I wrote a post about how I felt when David Bowie died, about how his legacy touched my family and how he had become like the edgy, cool uncle when we’re listening to music. I had to acknowledge however, that he didn’t really have a defining influence on my life. I didn’t make a profound discovery about myself through listening to his music. I just love it and besides, I wasn’t that cool.

So yesterday, when I heard about the death of Victoria Wood, I knew that there had been a seismic shift in my life.

It wasn’t the fact that I cried when I heard The Ballad of Barry and Freda on the radio and then again when I watched the Spaghetti Sketch on the News.

Regular readers to this blog will know that on the 1 to 10 scale of sadness with 10 being utter despair and 3 being slight melancholy, I’m a lost cause at anything past two and a half.

It was more that it reminded me of when Victoria Wood was the defining influence in my life and it made me realise that much of my sense of humour and my frequent inability to take things seriously, are down to her.

Victoria Wood books

So this is a letter from my teenage self, explaining what she means to me.

Dear Victoria Wood,

Hello. How are you? Sorry, I’m a bit nervous writing to you. I know I shouldn’t be. You seem really lovely on television so I expect you’re just as lovely in real life. You can tell that about a person, can’t you? It’s all in the eyes according to my Mum.

‘If the smile doesn’t reach the eyes then run a mile, Annie. Also never trust a man with a beard.’

Good advice I’m sure you’ll agree and it means that you are both trustworthy and lovely according to my mother because you don’t have a beard and your smile always reaches your eyes. In fact, you look as if you’re having the time of your life when you’re performing. It’s as if you’re talking to a room full of friends and I love that.

Sorry, I’m rabbiting on now instead of telling you the reason for this letter.

I wanted to say thank you. From the bottom of my heart and the heart of my bottom. Sorry. Again. I stole that line from Fry and Laurie. Do you know them? They’re my other favourites. I wrote to them as well.

Anyway, as I was saying, I wanted to thank you because you sort of saved me. That sounds a bit dramatic, doesn’t it? I do like a bit of drama but I like comedy more. I have filled my life with as much comedy as I can – I particularly love you, of course. And Blackadder. And French and Saunders. I watch everything over and over again.  I memorise all the lines.

My friend and I performed your ‘Self Service’ sketch last year at the church revue. I played the Julie Walters part. I wasn’t very good and I didn’t understand half the references but I loved it. I love making people laugh. It’s a great feeling, isn’t it?

You’re brilliant at it of course and I think the way you play with words is very clever. My friends and I can’t say, ‘Malibu,’ ‘pochette,’ or ‘you’d be very middling at modelling, Madeleine’ without laughing now. Actually, that’s another thing. I’ve made some really good friends because of you –  friends I can laugh with and say,

‘Hello, I’m looking for my friend, Kimberley. Have you seen her?’

Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. For making me laugh and helping me to see the funny side of life in all the silly little things that happen. I’m going to try to keep making people laugh in some way if I can, ideally until chips come down their noses. I hope you approve. I reckon you do.

Much love and a plate of macaroons,

Annie x

 

 

 

The reluctant cat owner

‘Shall we get a cat then?’

No-one was more surprised than me when I uttered these words to my husband at the beginning of October last year. We’d been talking about getting a pet for years but failed to commit. There’s always a good reason not to get a pet.

For the past ten years, I have used the excuse of small children. They effectively serve as pets in their constant need to be fed, kept clean and played with. They can also be toilet-trained, thereby for me, offering a key advantage.

My children have wanted a pet ever since they were able to talk. As their other friends got pets, I was always ready with a new excuse relative to the animal in question.

Pets

‘Macey has a guinea-pig.’

‘Too small and squeaky.’

‘Eva’s got rabbits.’

Which promptly got eaten by a fox, providing me with a ready-made get-out clause.

‘Ella’s got tortoises.’

I struggled here as actually, tortoises are very cool – a prehistoric-type pet, which you have to hibernate them over the winter – these are animals I can relate to.

Really though, I wanted a dog. I’ve always wanted a dog ever since my Dad said I couldn’t have a dog and bought me a rabbit to shut me up.

I did love the rabbit though. He was fierce and grey. He used to scare foxes away by thumping on the floor of his hutch or throwing his metal food bowl.

Once we took him to the vets and a dog in the waiting room started to howl at the smell of rabbit. Smokey (for that was his name) thumped with aggressive persistence until we opened the box, whereupon he poked out his head, giving the dog such a look of rabbity terror (don’t mock until you’ve experienced it – think Paddington bear stare with an edge of Watership Down carnage), that the poor hound recoiled in horror.

paddington bear stare

Anyway, scary rabbits to one side, in the cat versus dog debate, I have always been a dog person. My husband is a cat person. In the spirit of marital harmony, we decided that we would work towards owning both but that, for practical reasons, the cat should come first.

Being a wise man, my husband realised that he had to let me decide the right time for the cat. I was the one who needed to get my head around the idea of becoming a cat owner.

I think my essential issue with cats is that I am jealous of them. They’ve got life sussed. They get food when they want it, attention when they feel like it and then just do their own thing when they don’t. They spend most of their time sleeping in a warm place, ideally under a radiator, by a fire or in a handy patch of sun. I for one, want to come back as a big fat Tabby living with a kind old lady, who likes to over-indulge me and always has the heating on. Happy life sorted.

So we found a cat, a kitten to be precise because I was determined that if we did this, we did it properly. Our first family pet would be a cute kitten arriving at Christmas for the children to love and adore.

I warned my husband that I was prepared to embrace the idea of the kitten but couldn’t promise any more than that.

The kitten arrived two days before Christmas. He was tiny and black with wonky blue eyes and a face like a bear. He seemed very relaxed as he sauntered into our lives. The children were over-joyed. My husband was like a teenager in the first flush of new love. I felt a bit like I had when I’d first become a mother – worrying if he was warm enough, was he getting enough food and what on earth were worming tablets (actually that is less of an issue with a baby tbh).

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I booked a precautionary trip to the vet. The vet was relaxed. He chuckled as he placed the kitten on the gigantic weighing-machine. The cat weighed
400 grams – less than two pats of butter. The vet suggested kitten milk to help build him up a little.

Christmas day started well. It was fun having a kitten. We held a democratic vote and finally decided to name him, ‘Buddy.’

Buddy was quite sleepy during the afternoon but then everyone is sleepy on Christmas Day afternoon. We gave him some kitten milk later on. He lapped it up and then threw it up. As the evening wore on, he became even sleepier. He fell asleep in his litter tray. He couldn’t walk anywhere without falling over. As kittens aren’t regular pub-goers, we became concerned.

After the children were tucked up in bed, my husband and I started to get very worried. We began to use words like, ‘listless,’ and ‘dehydration.’ We tried and failed to give him water.

I cradled him in my arms as tears pricked my eyes. ‘I never wanted a bloody cat,’ I told him. ‘And now look what you’ve done. Don’t you dare die. You’ve got to grow up so that you can go out into the world and bring back a huge mouse to make me scream. I love you, you little bugger.’

My husband phoned the vet, his face pale with worry. It became even paler when the vet told him how much it would cost to treat a kitten on Christmas Day. We shrugged at one another. We had no choice. He took him to the vet and we spent twenty four hours fretting. Finally, the call came late afternoon on Boxing Day. Buddy was okay. I went and stood in the garden and had a little cry.

A month on, he’s doubled in size and behaves like a toddler. He is an original ankle-biter. He likes to skip and gambol just in front of my feet making it impossible to walk normally. He is currently sitting on my lap as I type this, sleeping, his breath steady and a little bit squeaky.

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I was telling a good friend about him the other day.

‘How’s the cat?’ he asked.

‘Cute. Annoying,’ I replied.

‘Just like having a child then,’ he observed. ‘With the childhood part all done in one year.’

‘Huh,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that but yes, that’s exactly what it’s like.’

So there you have it, I am a reluctant pet owner with a toddler cat. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and play with him – they grow up so fast these days.

Then it’ll be time to get a puppy.

labrador puppy

A short but heart-felt post

In my family, I’m known for my emotional outbursts. I cry at many things – Christmas adverts, piano-backed TV moments involving mums and daughters, anything adorable or sad involving children. I am basically a leaky bucket of a woman. So I wasn’t surprised today when I felt tears spring to my eyes at the news of the death of David Bowie.

But why? I didn’t know him. I’d never met him or seen him play live. I can’t claim ownership of his music or style. My defining musical era was the eighties when both music and style were decidedly dodgy. I came late to the Bowie party (I’m late for most things so it seems appropriate).

I have been listening to the radio today and the wall-to-wall tributes. Many people tell stories of having met him or tales of how his music influenced their lives or just made them happy. I have wept through most of the anecdotes and songs but I am still left wondering why.

I think it’s because David Bowie was born in south-east London and so was I. He played one of his first gigs at a pub a few miles from where I live now (The Three Tuns in Beckenham, now sadly a Zizzi but I reckon David would have approved of the Arancini). We were both born on the 8th of January. I told everyone on Friday that he’d released his new album, Black Star as a birthday present for us both. I even proposed a champagne toast to him.

But most of all, I think I feel sad because my family adopts their musical heroes as part of the family. James Taylor and Stevie Wonder are both uncles, Carole King is an aunt. Therefore, David Bowie must be godfather to my children. My eight-year-old son has always loved Ziggy Stardust and used to giggle as he sang about the, ‘spiders from Mars’, when he was five or so. My daughter and I held hands and wept with pride as Team GB walked out to ‘Heroes’ at the opening ceremony of the London 2012 Olympics. My husband and I do a nifty duet to ‘Space Oddity.’

And that’s the reason. He’s one of our family. He’s that cool, edgy uncle with the effortless style and that misfit way that we adore. And he always will be.

 

My Perfect Christmas

I love Christmas. I mean really love it. There can never be enough tinsel, too many fairy lights or sufficient sausages wrapped in bacon wrapped in sausages and so on for me.

I want it to be perfect too. I want snow to fall, chestnuts to roast on an open fire and there to be peace and goodwill to all people.

Of course, deep down I know that these things won’t happen, that roasted chestnuts are actually a bit dry, that in my forty one years on this earth, it hasn’t snowed once at Christmas and that you only have to turn on the News to see that peace and goodwill are a little way off.

Still, I think it’s important to hope and to believe. That’s actually what Christmas is about for me – the excitement is in the build-up, the thrill of expectation before the reality of the actual day – a lovely reality, but not quite like the dream.

With this in mind and for your festive delight, here are the dreams and reality of my own Christmas.

 

The Dream

The weeks before Christmas are enjoyed at a leisurely pace. I have been making thoughtful home-made presents since September. All the gifts are purchased by the end of November, cards written in the first week of December and everything wrapped by the 10th.

I attend lots of wonderful Christmas parties wearing a different amazing dress and shoe combination to each one.  I always dance in a stylish and dignified manner and leave at a sensible hour. I never have a hangover.

On Christmas Eve, I watch The Snowman snuggled up with my children and let the Christmas spirit wash over me. In the evening, I watch It’s a Wonderful Life with my husband, weeping over the ending because this is what Christmas is all about. I go to bed early so that I am on sparkling form the next day.

Christmas Day is sheer bliss. The children sleep in until eight, they open their stockings, which are filled with thoughtful and useful presents. We sit on the bed enjoying a family breakfast of croissants and coffee. No crumbs are made or jammy fingerprints left on the duvet.

My husband cooks the most magnificent Christmas dinner and we sink into post-lunch happiness, watching a film, playing games and supping on Champagne.

By the evening we are sleepy, happy and possibly a couple of the other seven dwarves as well. We fall into bed feeling content and very lucky.

 

The Reality

The weeks before Christmas are endured in a screaming panic. I have been making thoughtful home-made presents since the 18th of December and the remains of my Christmas Chutney are still welded to the counter-top like the some kind of evil super-glue. I order the last present from Amazon on the 23rd of December and still refuse to pay for postage, praying to the god of super-saver deliveries for benevolence. The presents are all wrapped by 2 am on Christmas Day.

I have one Christmas party to attend along with a rising panic about what to wear. I do not own any amazing dresses and the last time I wore my posh shoes, I sustained a blister the size of a Jaffa Cake. I am always the first on the dance floor and the last to leave. My hangover lingers for the best part of a week.

On Christmas Eve, I watch The Snowman snuggled up with my children. By the end, we are all sobbing and my son is wailing, ‘Why do you make us watch this EVERY year?’

In the evening, I watch It’s a Wonderful Life with my husband, weeping over the fifty or so presents of varying size and shape still to wrap, and the fact that apparently this is what Christmas is all about. I feel the spirit of a bad back and sore shoulders wash over me as we head to bed around
2.30 am utterly exhausted.

Christmas Day is weary bliss. The children sleep in until six, they open their stockings filled with lots of plastic and useless presents and we enjoy a hundred weight of sweets, chocolate and coffee for breakfast. There is an alarming brown stain left on the duvet, which I ignore.

My husband cooks the most magnificent Christmas dinner and we sink into post-lunch torpor, watching a film, playing games and supping on Champagne.

By the evening we are sleepy, happy and possibly a couple of the other seven dwarves as well. We fall into bed feeling content and very lucky.

May your Christmas dreams and reality be similarly wonderful.

 

This is my last blog until 2016 so I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

 

This post originally appeared on the fabulous

http://lozzasbookcorner.blogspot.co.uk/