Mother rings to update me on her Christmas shopping.
"So we've got you the Clarins--"
"Don't tell me!" I plead.
"What do you mean, don't tell you?" Mother snaps. "I'm telling you that I've got you what you asked for. I'm telling you because I thought you'd be pleased."
"Yes," I sigh. "Thank you. I am pleased."
Mother has done this to me every year since I can remember: she always tells me exactly what my Christmas present is the minute she has bought it. It is a miracle I believed in Father Christmas for as long as I did. (Which, in fact, was for a shamefully long time. I have an excruciatingly clear memory of walking into the bathroom and demanding to know whether or not Father Christmas existed. "You have to tell me," I informed them. "Otherwise one day I will have children of my own and I will wait up all night for him to come and then what will I do when he doesn't?" I was in my first year at secondary school when I asked this.)
"So that's Christmas all done and dusted," Mother announces with satisfaction.
"Great," I say. And there was I thinking it hadn't started yet.
"Yes, Christmas shopping isn't much fun, is it? So I'm glad it's all over for another year. London was hell. Y'father and I went to The Savoy to treat ourselves after battling down Oxford Street - urgh! Far too many people. But then there are too many people in this country, as I'm always saying--"
"Yes, you are," I cut in hastily before I get the "it's all the fault of the immigrants" rant. "So, The Savoy - that must have been nice?" I ask.
"Well, it would have been," Mother sniffs. "Except that they were only doing a Thanksgiving meal! Thanksgiving, I ask you? Since when did we give a stuff about that?"
"Oh, I suppose everything gets Americanised these days," I mumble.
"Huh! I hope they don't think we're going to start celebrating Thanksgiving. Halloween's bad enough. What on earth are we supposed to be giving thanks for?" Mother snorts.
"That's easy!" Dad has picked up the other phone and barks into my ear, giving me the fright of my life. "We should be giving thanks we got rid of the bastards."
The Aged Ps collapse into hysterics.
I wonder idlly whether Dad has thought of applying for the job of Jeremy Clarkson's script writer. But I manage not to let this thought slip out. I don't want to be giving him any ideas.
"Well, there's certainly no reason to give thanks for anything around here at the moment," Mother says, recovering from her hysteria. "The country's going to the dogs. What about the strike? Load of old . . ."
And off she goes, chuntering away to Dad about the fecklessness of the unions and the Have-It-All Culture of People Today.
I listen wearily while a picture forms in my mind of the same conversation rearing its ugly head over the mince pies and brandy butter in four weeks' time.
Suddenly I'm not feeling a whole lot like giving thanks, either.
"So we've got you the Clarins--"
"Don't tell me!" I plead.
"What do you mean, don't tell you?" Mother snaps. "I'm telling you that I've got you what you asked for. I'm telling you because I thought you'd be pleased."
"Yes," I sigh. "Thank you. I am pleased."
Mother has done this to me every year since I can remember: she always tells me exactly what my Christmas present is the minute she has bought it. It is a miracle I believed in Father Christmas for as long as I did. (Which, in fact, was for a shamefully long time. I have an excruciatingly clear memory of walking into the bathroom and demanding to know whether or not Father Christmas existed. "You have to tell me," I informed them. "Otherwise one day I will have children of my own and I will wait up all night for him to come and then what will I do when he doesn't?" I was in my first year at secondary school when I asked this.)
"So that's Christmas all done and dusted," Mother announces with satisfaction.
"Great," I say. And there was I thinking it hadn't started yet.
"Yes, Christmas shopping isn't much fun, is it? So I'm glad it's all over for another year. London was hell. Y'father and I went to The Savoy to treat ourselves after battling down Oxford Street - urgh! Far too many people. But then there are too many people in this country, as I'm always saying--"
"Yes, you are," I cut in hastily before I get the "it's all the fault of the immigrants" rant. "So, The Savoy - that must have been nice?" I ask.
"Well, it would have been," Mother sniffs. "Except that they were only doing a Thanksgiving meal! Thanksgiving, I ask you? Since when did we give a stuff about that?"
"Oh, I suppose everything gets Americanised these days," I mumble.
"Huh! I hope they don't think we're going to start celebrating Thanksgiving. Halloween's bad enough. What on earth are we supposed to be giving thanks for?" Mother snorts.
"That's easy!" Dad has picked up the other phone and barks into my ear, giving me the fright of my life. "We should be giving thanks we got rid of the bastards."
The Aged Ps collapse into hysterics.
I wonder idlly whether Dad has thought of applying for the job of Jeremy Clarkson's script writer. But I manage not to let this thought slip out. I don't want to be giving him any ideas.
"Well, there's certainly no reason to give thanks for anything around here at the moment," Mother says, recovering from her hysteria. "The country's going to the dogs. What about the strike? Load of old . . ."
And off she goes, chuntering away to Dad about the fecklessness of the unions and the Have-It-All Culture of People Today.
I listen wearily while a picture forms in my mind of the same conversation rearing its ugly head over the mince pies and brandy butter in four weeks' time.
Suddenly I'm not feeling a whole lot like giving thanks, either.
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