The Sales

Daughter and I have hatched a plot to nip into town for a browse around the sales. We know that the Male Contingent have a horror of any environment which contains pavements, so we plan to go in on our own. We shall have a leisurely time wandering around, possibly stopping for a hot chocolate and generally enjoying ourselves without anyone trailing behind us saying, "Do you have to look at another jumper/notepad/hair bobble. Why can't you buy the first one you see?" We have a vague agenda which encompasses, amongst other things, going to the Apple Store to buy accessories for The iPad. (It is to be diplomatically referred to as "The" iPad so that no one can take offence at anyone else claiming ownership, even though, technically, it is mine.) We are on the point of slipping out of the door unnoticed, leaving Small Boy and Husband to their own agenda of gardening and chicken-care, when Husband whirls round and asks, "Where are you going?" "Just into town," I say as nonchalantly as possible. "Just to, you know, look around the sales." Of all the responses I am expecting, I am not ready for this: "Great idea! Let's all go. We could look at sofas." I gawp, horrorstruck and speechless, as I watch my carefully planned Mother-and-Daughter morning slip from my grasp. Then I catch sight of Small Boy whose face is turning pink. It's OK, I think with relief, he's sure to wail and gnash his teeth at the idea of shopping. He would rather spend a precious morning of his holidays sticking drawing pins in his ears and learning the periodic table by heart while eating the leftover sprouts for breakfast. But no. Wrong again. "Oh yeah! I want to come!" cries Small Boy doing a victory dance around the table. "I love sofa shops!" "Oh no," Daughter groans. "Don't do that thing you did in the curtain shop, please." Small Boy went through a worrying phase a few years back of going into raptures over velour and chenille fabric samples - he would rub his face in them and make purring noises. "Yes, don't do that," I add. Twenty minutes later we find ourselves being dropped off by Husband with specific instructions. "Right," he says jamming on the brakes and shooting me a steely look. It is one I've seen many times before and know never bodes well. "I don't want to be all day about this. You've got twenty minutes to go to the Apple Store while I do some jobs and then I'll meet you in the sofa shop at ten past eleven. Don't be late." Small Boy decides he wants to come to the Apple Store too, so I find myself running through town, dragging both children behind me. "Why are we running?" shouts Daughter. "So I can have more time in the store!" I shout back. "My legs hurt!" shouts Small Boy. "You should have gone with Dad," I return. We arrive in the Apple Store to find they don't sell the kind of cover I want for my - sorry THE - iPad, and so sprint to Carphone Warehouse. I am on the point of choosing a cover when my mobile rings. It is Husband. "Where are you?" "I'm in the Carphone Warehouse. Why?" "That's just what I was going to ask you." "What?!" "Why are you in the Carphone Warehouse? You said you were going to the Apple Store." I am starting to feel very huffy. Not only have I been given a timetable, I must now explain a detour in my plans within the confines of that timetable. "If you let me get on instead of phoning me, I should still make it to meet you at ten past eleven!" I hiss. I pay for the cover and note we now only have five minutes to do the 1000 metre dash to the sofa shop. "Mu-um! I can't run that fast!" "Slow down!" "I don't want to be late for y'father," "You sound like Grandma when you say that." "Grrrr!" We arrive in the sofa shop on the dot of 11:10. A smiley lady immediately walks over to ask if she can help. I start to explain that my husband will be somewhere in the shop, waiting for us. "No, he's not," says Daughter. "I've already looked everywhere and he's not here yet." I grit my teeth and try to return Smiley Lady's smile. "Never mind. Let's try some sofas while we are waiting." "I know what I like already," says a muffled voice. I glance round just in time to find Small Boy wrapping himself in fabric samples, a beatific, glazed expression on his face. I glumly watch him purr and giggle and I sigh as my last chance of a half-hour to myself browsing in the clothes shops vanishes. At least someone is having fun, I think as I reach for my mobile and call Husband's number . . .

New Year's Resolutions

We see in the New Year at the house of Small Boy's Best Friend William, and very convivial it is too. Once we have finished the exhaustive and raucous entertainment programme (including, amongst other things, filming the kids making a human pyramid - smallest underneath, naturally) the conversation inevitably turns to New Year's Resolutions. William's dad glumly announces that he will be training to complete the London Marathon in sub-3 hours as his sister's boyfriend has already achieved this, and he cannot face the world, let alone the rest of his family, until he has beaten the man.
I have never been able to keep up with William's dad, whether running or otherwise. But happily I was not intending to make any resolutions. (Other than to watch series one of "The Killing" now that the series is finished on television and the rest of the world knows how it all ends. It seems about time.)

Husband, however, awakes on the first day of 2012, alarmingly full of energy and, seemingly inspired by William's dad, ready to make lots of resolutions.
For me.
"You could start by giving up swearing," he suggests breezily.
"I bloody well couldn't," I mutter. My head is hurting. Everything is annoying me already, and the New Year has hardly started. "Can you please at least take your dirty plate to the dishwasher?" I grumble at Daughter.
"And you could also try and have a more relaxed attitude towards the children," adds Husband. "But before you have a go at that, what about tackling the Messy Drawer in the kitchen?"
I grunt an unintelligible response which includes some more swearing and not a lot of relaxed attitude.
The Messy Drawer is one of many glory holes throughout the house where things tend to get tidied away (i.e. chucked away) when I need to do a swift cleaning-up operation (i.e. every Friday night before Husband comes home). Over the four years we have lived in this house, the glory holes have become distinctly less glorious and increasingly less full of holes due to the amount of stuff filling them. I do very well at walking past them and ignoring them most of the time, pushing aside the niggling sensation that I really should Sort Them All Out Soon. And thankfully Husband has not usually got enough time or energy to remind me about them.
Until now.
Now he has had a week off work and is clearly feeling fresh and invigorated. (I should have recognised the signs. He joined in with Pictionary at the New Year's Eve party instead of falling asleep on a sofa or coughing and making obvious tapping motions on the face of his watch at ten thirty.)
"Come on!" he says, jumping up. "No time like the present!" He pulls the drawer out of the dresser and up-ends it on to the kitchen table.
"Oh. My. Word," he says. "What on earth is all this?"
He points to a pile of vaguely crumble-like substance mixed in with loose drawing pins, pieces of chalk, ink cartridges, used chequebook stubs and some tap washers.
"Well. It's - it's a messy drawer," I say lamely.

An hour later Husband has separated out the drawing-pins, pieces of chalk etc and put them into discreet compartments. He has swept up the crumble-like substance and disposed of it. And he is now talking me through the new filing system for stationery and chequebooks. I must admit to being impressed.
"That's lovely. Thank you," I say. "I think I'll go and have a shower now."
"Oh no," says Husband firmly. "Now that I've shown you how to do it, you can make a start on the next phase." He walks over to the kitchen cupboards and opens the bottom one where I store a spare kettle, a juicer, two metres of old wallpaper, bubble wrap, three French hens, two turtle doves and--
"NO!" I cry. "Not the Messy Cupboard! Have you no mercy?"
He gives me a hard stare that Paddington would be proud of and waits until I begin the mammoth task of clearing out and sorting.
I have a feeling that 2012 is going to be a very long year.

The Perfect Christmas Lunch

We have survived church.Husband sprints down the road making muffled excuses about having to "save the turkey", leaving me to whisk the Aged Ps out of the door before they can get the vicar in a corner and tell him what Richard Dawkins would have to say about his sermon.
Small Boy has almost reached the point of spontaneous combustion by this point.
"CAN WE OPEN OUR PRESENTS THE MINUTE WE GET IN?" he hollers, bouncing up and down in the middle of the pavement in front of me.
"You take them into the sitting room while Dad and I put the veg on for lunch and then we will open them, I promise," I mollify him.
"I hope the turkey will be done on time," says Mother.
"I'm sure it will be," I say.
"Did you know that it takes until you are 47 to perfect cooking Christmas lunch?" says Mother. "You've still got six years to go - ha!" she adds.
Small Boy rushes in to get the presents from under the tree and has them organised into separate piles for each person before I have had time to take my coat off.
"What's this one?" he asks, running up to me with a small packet which appears to be addressed to Mother - from Mother.
"Er, I don't know. Must be a mistake," I say.
"No, it's not a mistake," Mother says. "That present is for me."
"But it also says it's from you," says Small Boy.
"Yes, well. I don't get many presents," she says sniffily. "And I bought your mother the same thing in a two for one deal, so I thought I'd keep the free one."
I concentrate my energies on the roast potatoes and leave Small Boy to ponder on the appropriateness of this version of gift-giving.
Dad, meanwhile, has ferretted out a bottle of bubbly and cracked it open with the excuse that he has to "toast my brother in South Africa at this time of day". It is only 11:30, but frankly I am not going to turn down a glass the way I am feeling.
"SO CAN WE OPEN THE PRESENTS YET?" Small Boy yells, dancing around dangerously near a pan of sizzling hot fat.
"Yes, yes," I say, waving him out of the kitchen.
"Is that turkey all right?" Mother asks. "Why don't you let me help? After all, technically I perfected the cooking of Christmas lunch 21 years ago!" She laughs heartily.
Small Boy and Daughter are ripping the wrapping paper off the iPods we have given them. Once opened, there ensues a tedious exchange of texts, which unfortunately I am party to, and which goes something like this:

- Hello. This is me. Is that u?

- Who is this? I cant see ur name.

- u r a loser.

- Not Im not Im kl.

- This is Mum. Please stop texting me while I'm trying to cook.

- Hello. Is that Mum?
- no its not u loser.

- I dont hv a username do u?

- SHUT UP!

Mother quickly gets huffy as she doesn't have an iPhone or iPod so feels she is missing out. "I don't agree with all this technology anyway," she says. "The Kindle's rubbish for a start. I find I can't remember anything I've read on the Kindle! It's as if it wipes my memory the minute I've finished with it. And as for texting . . . " She fishes out her own archaic brick of a mobile. "I mean, it doesn't even work." She begins prodding at the keyboard and swearing. "Take a look at this, can't you?" she says, thrusting it under Dad's nose. "I want to send a text to our other daughter. Seeing as no one here is talking to me." She glares at her grandchildren. "But every time I press send, it doesn't do anything."
Dad frowns, presses a few buttons and says, "You've sent the same text ten times already."
"Well how on earth am I supposed to know that?" Mother says, throwing up her hands in despair.
"Never mind, Mum," I say, downing another glass of bubbly. "Technology is kind of the opposite of Christmas lunch."
"What do you mean?"
"If you haven't perfected it by the time you're 47, you're most unlikely ever to be able to manage it," I say with a grin. "Oh, look at that. The turkey's ready. Lunch anyone? Or would you like to wait another six years, just in case it's not perfect?"

Distraction Techniques

I made a vow to myself before Christmas that I would remain cheery at all times. This is not something that comes naturally to me, particularly when I have the Aged Ps to stay for longer than twenty-four hours, so I had to come up with some strategies to get me through the four days of festive family fun that lie ahead. I decided that the best way to deal with everyone was to treat them as I would a demanding toddler: feed them frequently, let them nap when they want to, ignore bad behaviour and praise the good. And if all else fails, use Distraction Techniques.
Thus it is that come Christmas Eve I find myself drawing up a mental Christmas Chart that would rival Miranda's mother's. In my mind's eye, it looks like this:

Christmas Day
8:30 am Breakfast
10:00 am Church
11:30 am Present-opening
12:00pm Drinks and nibbles
1:00pm Lunch
2:00pm Games
3:00pm Walk
5:00pm Tea and cake for those who can manage it
7:00pm Dr Who
8:00pm Supper
9:00pm Downton Abbey
11:00pm Bed

I am hoping that this will not leave enough room for indepth "discussions" (aka rants) about the Euro, the riots, Jeremy Clarkson or Nick Clegg.

We stagger down to breakfast, after a night of Small Boy waking up on the hour every hour to open another stocking present, to find the Aged Ps are up already and waiting for someone to put the kettle on and show them how to use the toaster.
"So when can we open our presents?" asks Mother, following me around the kitchen like the dog does when she is hoping for tidbits.
Husband has been schooled in The Chart, and is ready with the correct answer.
"After church," he says, as Mother moves into his personal space.
"I thought you didn't go to church?" says Mother, eyes narrowing.
He shrugs and says, "Coffee?" He is getting good at the Distraction Techniques too.
Mother is right, Husband doesn't go to church, but he is not stupid. He knows a good thing when he sees it. On Christmas Day when you have your in-laws to stay, going to church is a very useful form of killing time.
Mother doesn't go to church either, but she does not want to miss out on anything that could be used as material later in the day, so she comes.
Within seconds of sitting down, Mother has found a way of bringing the conversation around to the inconsiderate mildness of the weather which inexorably leads us to climate change. I make the fatal mistake of saying that Husband's brother (a social scientist who knows more than most people about the effects of climate change) has a lot of gloomy things to say about it.
"Yes, I know," says Mother. "It's East Anglia I'm worried about. It won't exist by the time the kids are adults."
"I think I'd be more worried about Africa," I say.
I might just as well have said, "Look out, there's an immigrant about to sit next to you."
Mother's face darkens. "Well Africa's a mess already. Let them all kill each other, I say. It's survival of the fittest."
I look towards the altar and take a deep breath. Don't rise to it. Think: Distraction Techniques, I tell myself.
"So, shall we play Cluedo when we get home?" I say.
Mother brightens. "Lovely," she says. "As long as don't have to be the Reverend Green. Load of crap, this religion business," she announces loudly as the vicar walks in.
Happily it seems that the organist has been told about Distraction Techniques too, as he conveniently starts up the introduction to Unto Us a Son is Born, just as Mother announces: "I'm an atheist, you know."

I smile and nod and start singing. Very, very loudly.

Aged Ps Bingo

It is Christmas Eve Eve and we are awaiting the arrival of the Aged Ps. The heating has been cranked up to top notch; we are wandering around in shorts and T-shirts and sucking ice cubes, but it is worth it if it prevents Mother from sitting in the corner, shivering and telling us that "old houses are too drafty".
"What's the betting Grandma arrives saying, 'We've had a terrible journey. There are far too many people in this country'?" I say.
"Yes," says Daughter. "She'll probably blame it on the immigrants."
I sigh. She probably will, although I would like to know the exact statistics of cars full of 'immigrants' travelling from the south-east to the south-west on Christmas Eve Eve versus the statistics of cars half-full of pensioners doing that same journey.
"At least it's not raining," I say, trying to look on the bright side. "Otherwise she would say, 'It's been a terrible journey. And of course it's raining. It always rains when we come to see you.'"
"Grandma always says the same things," says Small Boy, with a puzzled frown. "It's weird."
"Yes, But instead of letting it get us down, I think we should ignore it this time," I say.
"Or make a game of it," Daughter suggests.
"Oh! We could play 'Aged Ps Bingo'!" I say.
"What's that?" asks Small Boy.
"Well, you know in Bingo someone calls out numbers and you mark them on your card and then shout 'Bingo!'?" I explain. "In our version, every time Grandma, or Grandpa, come to that, says one of their sayings--"
"You mean like how it's been a 'dreadful year', or how it always rains when they come to see us?" chips in Daughter.
"Yes--"
"Or if they mention immigrants?" she continues gleefully.
"Or if they both start singing in Latin or talking in Italian?" asks Small Boy.
"Or Swedish," says Daughter.
"Yes, yes! All those things," I say impatiently. "If they do that, then we get to kind of mentally mark it and when we've got four or five or them we can say Bingo - very, very quietly, and only to each other," I add hastily.
I glance at the clock. Five minutes to go. I can be that accurate, because the Aged Ps are. Unless it's been an even more terrible journey than usual, that is.
One minute to go and right on cue, the heavens open and the most torrential rain we have experienced in the past fortnight is tipped out of the sky on to our heads.
Dong! The clock strikes three and the Ghosts of Christmas Present arrive on the doorstep, rattling their chains and moaning.
"Urgh. It always rains when we come to see you," says Mother, shaking her umbrella out over Psycho Cat.
"Bingo," whispers Small Boy, sniggering.
"Ahem," I say, giving him a pointed look.
"And we've had a terrible journey," adds Mother, plonking her luggage down on the dog.
"Bingo!" chorus Daughter and Small Boy, in slightly louder whispers.
"Not now," I say through gritted teeth.
"And I've just reversed the car into that skip you've left in your driveway," Dad mutters. "Non effundit imbres sed."
"BINGO!" the children snort, choking on their inadequately suppressed laughter.
I am shaking my head and furiously mouthing NO, but the Aged Ps seem not to have noticed anything amiss. But then: "Bingo?" Mother repeats, frowning.
I freeze and feverishly start praying for forgiveness and promising to be nice for the whole of Christmas if only she won't ask the kids what they are going on about.
"Funny you should say that. Look what I've brought you." She hands them a box of crackers.
The packaging announces that the box contains small table crackers with a joke, suggestions for charades and a game of--
"MINI BINGO!" shout the children.
Thank you Lord, I think, as I leave them to rip off the packaging and pour over the contents of the box.
I seem to have got away with that one.

All I Want For Christmas is Yoo-hoooo

Daughter's new passion is to Google guitar chords so that she can play and sing along to all manner of  X-Factor-soundy-likey numbers while she strums. She is actually pretty tuneful, so I cannot complain. I can shut the door, though. Particularly when she starts teaching Small Boy how to sing along to Christmassy Numbers.
Now, I like Christmas, I really do, and I love a good sing-along, but when your children bellow the likes of "Santa Claus is coming to town" or "Oh I wish it could be Christmas every day" or "All I want for Christmas is Yooo-hooooo!" at the top of their squeaky little voices, I begin to wish fervently that it was all over.
"So, all you want for Christmas is me?" I ask, after a particularly long drawn-out performance. "Well, that makes present-buying nice and easy."
Small Boy erupts into giggles and bounces around the room shouting, "Yes! You could wrap yourself up and put yourself under the tree!"
Daughter rolls her eyes heavenward. "She wouldn't fit," she mutters.
But Small Boy is still bouncing and giggling. I can always rely upon my son to find my sense of humour immensely pleasing, and since I know this won't last for much longer, I milk it for all it's worth. "I could stand in your room covered in paper and tinsel and ribbon and wait for you to wake up and find me on Christmas morning," I suggest.
Small Boy howls. "That would be SO COOL!" he shouts.
Daughter curls her lip and goes back to strumming and doing more X-Factor-style wailing noises.
"Hey!" says Small Boy, a glint developing dangerously in his already very beady eye. "Can I wrap myself up and be a surprise for Grandma and Grandpa on Christmas Day?"
"Er--" I hesitate, as an image comes to mind of the Aged Ps in their Aged PJs, staggering downstairs, the effects of their Christmas Eve drinking session still weighing heavily on their constitution, to be greeted by a Small Boy Jack-in-the-Box before they've had a chance to moan, "It really has been a dreadful year."
"Do you know what?" I say tentatively. "I don't think Grandma and Grandpa would see the funny side. I think you might actually give them a heart attack."
"But it would be HILARIOUS!" insists Small Boy.
It most probably would be, but I am not sure I am ready to deal with the consequences.
"No, I don't think so," I say firmly.
Small Boy looks momentarily disappointed. Then the glint comes back and he says, "What about if I wrapped Grandma and Grandpa up and they could be a surprise for Dad?" He hesitates. "Or, would that give him a heart attack too?"
I bite my lip and try to stay serious. "Yes, I think it probably would."
But he has given me an idea. I am going to give Small Boy full licence to act on the first person to say, "It really has been a dreadful year" - they will be boxed and gift-wrapped and shut in a room before you can shout "annus horribilis"!
That would be my perfect Christmas present.

The Aged Ps Go Berserk

Dad has joined a Swedish drinking society. No, you have not misread that sentence.
"It's called the BVs," he tells me.
"Sounds, ah, interesting," I say.
"Yes," says Dad. "I get to dress up as a Viking, drink Swedish beer and eat Swedish food. And the best of it is, we get to sing songs - in Swedish!"
I open my mouth to respond, but am at a complete loss.
I needn't worry, as Mother has already piped up in my other ear. "It's all bloody ridiculous, of course," she sneers. "But it keeps y'father quiet and gives me a night off, so I suppose that's something."
A night off from what? I wonder. Singing Swedish in the kitchen?
"So," I speak tentatively into the silence that crackles expectantly down the line. "Who are all the other people in the group?"
"Oh, I can't tell you," says Dad gleefully. "It's a secret society, you see. We are known offically as the Berserkers and Vikings and each of us has a name. There is a hierarchy too," he goes on. He is sounding more and more like an excitable ten-year-old who has just been admitted into the popular kids' gang at school. "You can progress from one stage to another once you have learnt the correct responses to certain questions."
"And the special handshakes," Mother guffaws. "It's like the Swedish Masons."
For once I have to agree with her.
(I Google it while I am on the phone to discover that the website is blocked and that I have to have a special password to be allowed to read anything about it at all. "Nytt anvandarnman och losenord" it tells me, sternly.)
"I'm going tonight," Dad continues, ignoring Mother. "And I've learnt all the questions and answers and if I get them right, I become a Hirdsmen."
"A herdsman?" I say.
"No," says Dad with infinite patience. "A H-irrrrds-men," he repeats in his best Swedish accent.
"Can anyone join?" I ask, breathing hard to supress my giggles.
"Absolut inte," says Dad, who seems to have gone into full-on Swedish mode now. "Sallskapet Basarkar et Vikingar genom inbjudan enbart. Och inga kvinnor ar tillatna."
"OK," I say in my fake Swedish accent. "Vell, I vould laik to buy some deorrrdorrant."
"Oh?" says Dad, playing along. "Ball or airsole?"
"Needer," I answer. "I vant it for my arrrmpits."
We fall about laughing and Mother slams her phone down in disgust.
"It's a shame that kvinnor aren't allowed in the BVs," I say, wiping tears of mirth from my cheeks. "I think I'd make rather a good Berserker woman."
"Ja," squeaks Dad, "Jag tror du skulle!"
Indeed.
God Jul minna vanner!

[The editor would like to apologise to any Swedish readers for grammatical and orthographic errors, which are no doubt legion ... Mainly because Blogger doesn't like writing in foreign.]

A Big Day Out for a Very Small Bird

It is the morning of the District Fanciers' Association Annual Poultry Show. Small Boy has been up since six thirty, pacing his room, memorising the names of all the special breeds on his chicken poster and waiting until he can legitimately wake us to take him into deepest, darkest Somerset to the village hall where he will show Titch, his Lavender Pekin.
A lot is riding on this day, and so far it has not started well. I have a tummy bug and Husband has a head cold. We would rather be in bed than standing in a cold village hall in the dark, but needs must.
At seven o'clock I stagger downstairs to help Small Boy retrieve his hen from the utility room where she has spent the night in the cage we used to put the dog in when she was a puppy. It is a cage big enough for a full-sized Labrador, so needless to say, the bantam Pekin looks somewhat lost in it. She does, however, look marvellously "poofy", which is our new adjective to describe quite how fluffed up her feathers become after a poultry-pampering session. However, as I lift her out of the cage and settle her in a cat box she tilts her head at me questioningly. She looks as doubtful as I feel about the day ahead of her.

Forty minutes later, I am only glad that this is a Poultry Show we are going to and not a Cat Show. Psycho Cat would have clawed her own eyeballs out after such a twisty-turny drive, but Titch is sitting demurely, not a feather out of place. This is more than can be said for me, as I am still feeling distinctly green about the gills, and have not enjoyed the thirty-point turn I had to perform to fit the Volvo into a parking space in the miniscule car park.
A huge number of people have already arrived with crates and crates of hens, cockerels and ducks. The hall itself is lined from floor to ceiling with metal cages stacked one on top of the other. There are mini hens, massive hens, cockerels the stature of your average Major-General with voices to match, and ducks of all shapes and sizes as well. One particularly neurotic duck seems to be convinced that it's being attacked by its own reflection and is savagely attacking the blurred image on the metal side of its cage, to the detriment of its oiled and polished beak. All the poultry, without exception, are stunningly attractive, brushed, fluffed and preened to within an inch of their lives.
The same cannot be said for the owners. I feel positively over-dressed in my Morning Face, jeans, jumper and un-brushed hair. I am glad I did not bother to set the alarm half an hour earlier to give myself time for makeup or matching socks.
I quickly forget that I am supposed to be marvelling at the beauty of the livestock and become more fascinated by the owners. I wonder what prizes I would award them.
Best Rare Breed, definitely, I think, as I notice a woman wearing an orange and brown jumper that is definitely handknitted and not in an On-Trend way.
Best True Weirdo.
Best Sour-Faced Trout Person.
Best Hard as Nails, Wouldn't Want to Meet You Down a Dark Alley Man.
They are amongst the weirdest and most unattractive bunch I have ever seen. And that is saying something from someone who has been to Crufts more than once and who knows more than she should about humans who take more pride in the appearance and health of their animals than they do in their own.
"So, can we go now?" I ask Small Boy, as I catch a particularly fruity waft of poultry poo that does nothing for the state of my stomach. (We are leaving Titch to be inspected and judged and coming back at 3pm for the prize-giving ceremony.)
"No," says Small Boy firmly. "Can't you see that everyone is giving their poultry a final grooming session? I must rub more Vaseline into Titch's beak and clean her feet again."

Somehow we get through the rest of the day, all of us slightly on edge at the thought of the tiny hen stuck in a cage, surrounded by noisy smelly neighbours awaiting her turn to be prodded and poked by potato-faced District Fanciers.
When Husband and Small Boy return at 3pm, I am bravely informed that Small Boy's Best Friend, William, cleaned up on the prizes.
"He got Best Bantam, Best Junior and Best Egg," he tells me. "But he did breed the bantam, and he did show eight hens."
"And what about Titch?" I ask.
Small Boy looks smaller than ever and says softly, "I asked why she didn't win anything, and they said she is Too Pale for a Show Bird."
I give him a hug and say, "Nevermind, she'll always be Best in Show to me. Just put it down to experience."
Small Boy brightens. "That's what I thought," he says. "Cos there's always next time, isn't there?"
"Next time?" I repeat nervously. I had hoped this poultry fancying was a one-off.
"Yes!" chirrups Small Boy. "There's another show in March. In Taunton! I've got the forms already . . ."
"Lovely dear," I say, through gritted teeth. "That's just - lovely."

The Aged Ps' Christmas Speech

Mother is gearing up for her Christmas Day Speech which she prepares every day as a rival to Her Majesty's. Ever since the Queen announced she had had an "annus horribilis", Mother has felt the need to compete. Once the lunch has been consumed, the crackers cracked and the pudding set on fire, Mother can be relied upon to sit back, sigh and say one of two things: "Well, I'm glad that's all over." Or "I have to say it's been a dreadful year."
Every time she phones she makes it clear that she is getting her material together early this year and gives me tempting little trailers so that I can have some idea of what I am to expect on the day.
"Well," she says, with feeling. "What do you think about Jeremy Clarkson?"
She knows very well what I think about Jeremy Clarkson, so I decide to keep my mouth shut. As it happens, it doesn't matter very much what I think as she leaves just about enough time in the conversation for me to draw breath before diving in with:
"If you ask me, it's ridiculous that he was forced to make a public apology. I mean, you can't say anything about anyone any more without being forced to make a public apology."
Actually, I think, you seem to do a very good job of saying exactly what you think whilst avoiding making apologies, public or otherwise.
"I mean, next they'll be saying we can't say the Greeks are lazy shits," Mother continues. "Which they palpably are. I mean LOOK at the state of their economy."
I make a mental note to warn Husband of the topics which will crop up over Christmas. Perhaps we can play "Aged Ps' Bingo" while they rant away to each other.
"Well, it's all the fault of their language," chips in Dad, who predictably has picked up the other phone. "Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful, but any culture whose language contains verbs which have four moods, three voices and three numbers as well as being conjugated in four main combinations of tense and aspect with a full complement of moods for each of the main tenses is bound to be a bit - moody!" he chortles.
Mother guffaws with glee at this Classicists' in-joke.
"Dad," I edge in, tentatively, "that wouldn't be Ancient Greek you're talking about, would it?"
"Ah," says Dad. "Well, doesn't matter much, does it? It's all--"
"Greek to me. Exactly," I finish. "So, apart from following Jezza's exploits and spitting tacks about the Greeks, how's life?" I ask.
Except I don't, as they have already moved on to howling about the state of the Euro and the perfidiousness of our Gallic neighbours.
"So what do you think about David Cameron's decision not to back the Euro?" Mother asks.
"I--," I begin.
"Tell you what," she says dangerously. "Don't tell me now. Let's save that discussion for when we come to stay next week."
I groan quietly and reach over to turn on the gas oven, ready to stick my head into it once I've put the phone down.

The Alarm(ed) Man

In true end-of-term spirit, everything in the house has decided to go on the blink. It's as if the house is saying, "You think you're run-down...? Try being me, with you lot rattling around inside me 24/7."
The family PC has given up the ghost (something I can no longer blame on the children leaving Sims permanently open, since we mercilessly murdered the whole Sims family weeks ago, consigning them to a cyber afterlife). A window is broken downstairs and it appears I shall have to sell all my wordly goods and/or sleep with the warty man from the glaziers to get it fixed this side of the New Year. And now the burglar alarm has broken. And not in a silent way.
We are woken at six thirty to the sounds of Daughter shouting, "There's a horrid beepy noise going on in the utility room and I can't make it stop!"
It transpires that none of us can make it stop, and so I have to call the security firm who grimly tell me it's "going to cost" me. Well, there's a surprise.
"And can you come and fix it this week?" I ask.
There's an ominous silence. "Hmmm," says the woman eventually. "Maybe. But I can't find any record of you on our system."
SO WHAT IF I'M NOT ON YOUR BLINKING SYSTEM? I want to shout. FOR GOODNESS SAKE, IT'S A RECESSION, WOMAN!!!! HERE I AM, WILLING TO THROW MONEY AT THIS. THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS TO COME AND FIX IT NOW!
She evidently senses a little ominousness in my own silence, because after a lot of teeth-sucking, she eventually agrees to send someone round.
When the someone arrives, he cannot work out where to park his car, or how to walk down the path to the house. He calls me on his mobile and I have to go out to meet him. He is hovering behind the garden gate, grinning sheepishly.
"Come in!" I call, waving cheerily.
He does not move.
I go up to the gate, open it and babble at him, "It's fine to leave your car there, just come on in."
He backs away nervously.
I run my tongue over my teeth. Nope, don't think there are the remains of breakfast lurking suspiciously. I look myself up and down. Yup, I remembered to get dressed this morning . . . I cannot work out what it is about me which is so off-putting. I smile encouragingly, "So, if you'd like to come this way," I try again, gesturing towards the house.
"Erm, have you got a dog?" the man says, stepping gingerly through the gate as though frightened it might be trip-wired.
"Yes," I say brightly. "She's very soppy--"
"What kind of dog?" he cuts in, shifting his gaze around, as if convinced I am hiding a dog on my person. "Only, I'm, er, very nervous of dogs," he adds, smiling shakily.
It is at this moment that I realise I had succombed to a stereotypical vision in my head of what a burglar alarm technician should be like. I had imagined a burly, no-nonsense type who could crush burglars in his bare hands. But no, it appears the species is softly spoken, nervy and terrified of Labradors.
"It's OK," I say. "You don't have to go anywhere near the dog. I'll keep her away from you."
We go in through the kitchen and the dog looks up dolefully. "I know, I know," her look of resignation clearly says, "I heard it all - he's scared of me. I'll stay here, don't worry." She sighs disappointedly and remains in her basket.
The man edges around the kitchen table and then makes a break for the utility room.
I leave him to pull and fuss at wires and tut a lot. It's OK, I think to myself, I've been forewarned: this is going to cost me.

After an hour or so of the alarm going off every five minutes, causing me to jump and utter unprintables every time, the man tells me it's fixed.
"So, shall I write you a cheque today, or should I wait for an invoice?" I ask.
The man immediately shuffles away from me.
That's funny, I think. I'm sure I just offered to pay him, not eat him alive.
"N-no," he says, waving a hand at me. "Don't give me a cheque. I don't like handling the money side of things, in case customers want to strangle me when they find out how much they owe."
"OK," I laugh.
He doesn't join in.
I escort him off the premises, making sure my soppy pooch gets not so much as a sniff of his trousers. The man is last seen doing a handbrake turn out of our drive, an expression of horror on his face, as though the very Hounds of Hell were on his tail.

The Only Bass in the Village

'Tis the season of choir rehearsals and general preparation for carol concerts, both in and out of school. I am wondering quite why I thought it would be a good idea to agree to host a children's rehearsal at my house in the final days of term when I am already running on empty and liable to bite anyone who comes within ten feet of me. But I hear myself agreeing to writing out cello parts, and copying out three part harmonies, with a blitheness of spirit akin to that of Scrooge's nephew, whilst inside I am seething more darkly than the crusty old uncle himself.
My poor, unfortunate children are at the receiving end of my bad mood, and suffer the worst of it on the way into school this morning. Small Boy has done his best to be merry and bright, but even he has had enough of me by the time we pull up outside school.
I stomp off to my own singing group's rehearsal with a face like the dark December sky above, and vent my frustration on an inappropriately lusty rendition of "Silent Night".
"Er, anything wrong?" asks my friend, as I belt out "All is calm, all is bright", my brow furrowed.
I tell her about the list of commitments that is overwhelming me and the fact that I have just won Vilest Mother of the Year Award.
"Things could be worse!" trills my friend. "You could be in charge of the whole village carol concert with a bunch of crumblies who labour under the illusion that I am put here on this earth for the sole purpose of spending two hours a week in a freezing church hall after work with a crowd of over-seventies whose last attempt at singing was a good thirty years ago and who believe their voices are on a par with those of the dulcet angelic hosts, rather than actually sounding like a combination of fingernails scraping down a blackboard and a chorus of belching banshees!" She pauses to draw breath.
"Oh," I say.
"And then there's Mr R. Oh. My. Goodness. He is the Only Bass in the Village, and by God does he know it."
"Right," I say.
"He tells me he's only got time for one rehearsal, turns up and criticises my Latin pronounciation, telling me it is 'too Cambridge', and then barks, 'Is this going to take long, only I've got a quail in the oven.'"
"A quail in the oven?" I repeat, baffled. Is this some kind of West Country euphemism I haven't had the pleasure of hearing until now?
"Yes," says my friend. "Mr R has roast quail on a Monday night, apparently. And then he tells me he doesn't need to see the music anyway, as he was a chorister at Westminster for seven years. Sadly that was about seventy years ago, but I can't comment or complain because--"
"He's the Only Bass in the Village?"
My friend nods, her face a worrying shade of purple.
She's right, I think as I gather my things and head back to my desk for a day of writing-as-therapy. Things could be worse.