Hell On Earth or Goodwill to All Men?

I have had my head so deep in writing the final draft of my latest book that all contact with the outside world has stopped. Also domestic tasks have ground to a halt. This has not gone unnoticed by the rest of the family, but not in a way that could be described as helpful.

“I haven’t got any hockey socks,” says Daughter.

“Nor you have,” I reply from behind my laptop.

“You haven’t signed my homework diary,” says Small Boy.

“Nope,” I say.

“I don’t have any pants,” says Husband.

I lower my head behind my laptop and hide.

The laundry pile has mated with the washing up pile and is reproducing at an alarming rate.

The animals are on the point of declaring war. I forget to feed Psycho Cat and she retaliates by pulling the carpet away from the stairs in such a way to ensure that I trip and injure myself enough for it to hurt for several days, but not enough to prevent me from ever feeding her again.

I give the dog the shortest of walks and am repaid by baleful looks and much getting-under-my-feet at every available opportunity.

I forget to let the chickens out in the morning.

I forget to shut the chickens in at night.

Fortunately Mr Fox is evidently consumed with writing the final draft of his book too, so we have not been paid a visit.

In the midst of the chaos, the Aged Ps ring.

“How are you?” asks Dad.

“Well, OK. Just a bit hectic,” I reply. “I’m finishing my book.”

Mother picks up the other phone. “I hope you’re ready for Christmas,” she barks. “It’s only five weeks away, you know.”
“Christmas?” I repeat. Surely the words “it’s five weeks away” tell you everything you need to know about why I am not ready for it yet, I say. But only to myself.

“Yes. Christmas,” says Mother. “I need to know what you all want.”

Mother does this to me every year, and every year I manage to forget that this is what she does. She makes asking me what I want for Christmas sound like asking me what form of execution I would prefer.

“I – I don’t know,” I say, staring, dead-eyed, at the wall for inspiration. “Nothing.”
“You can’t want nothing,” she says, disgusted. And then in the same breath, “Mind you, people make far too much of a fuss over Christmas these days. It’s all spend, spend, spend. And it starts earlier and earlier every year. Really, with the state the economy is in, it should be banned.”
“I agree,” I lie. I actually love Christmas, but I love it at Christmas time, not in the middle of November.

There is an uneasy pause. I never agree with Mother on anything. The fact that I just have seems to have thrown her.

“So,” says Mother, eventually. “Would your husband like Max Hasting’s new book on the Second World War? It’s called All Hell Let Loose.”

Sounds like a description of the sort of time we have as a family at Christmas, I think.

“Er, I’m not sure. I’ll ask him,” I say.

“Because I would like it for myself, actually,” says Mother.

“O-kaay,” I say.

“So what do you want for Christmas? Because I need to know,” she persists.

I think about saying “Peace on earth and goodwill to all men” just to annoy her. In the end I say, “Clarins face wash?”

This, it would seem, is the right answer.

I put the phone down with a sigh of relief and return to my deadline, Christmas forgotten about until the next time she calls.

Which will be tomorrow when she will announce that she has bought Husband the Max Hasting’s book and that he can give it to her if he doesn’t want it, and that she hasn’t been able to find Clarins face wash in Sainsbury's, so she's bought me a copy of the Max Hasting's book too.

Joy to the world, and all that.