Christmas Eve, it’s late and just me in the living room. Everyone else had gone to bed or left. Not a creature was stirring, not even a… cat.
That’s a complete lie, Tarragon’s posed up on the speakers by the telly, poised like an Egyptian deity and staring fixed at something/nothing over my right shoulder. Cats are very good at staring intently at nothing. It’s all part of the feline mind games you get accustomed to after over half a decade of indenture.
The house is very quiet. This isn’t strictly true either. I can hear the creak of the floorboards above me as my father-in-law fidgets in his sleep. But it’s quiet enough. We’ve been told there will be no more building work next door until the new year. Compared to the 12 month cacophony of trades and contractors next door, it’s do quiet I can almost hear my nasal hairs grow.
I shouldn’t really complain. One of the builders next door saved our bacon the Friday before Christmas. The downstairs loo suddenly started gushing water like Niagara Falls and Caroline dispatched me next door to beg for a plumber while she swaddled the base of the bowl in towels like the Baby Jesus.
We were very lucky, all of the trades were about to leave for Christmas, but when I explained our predicament, one of the handymen grabbed an adjustable spanner, ran into our house and sorted the issue in less than five minutes.
We were full of thanks, but he quickly fanned away those. He thanked us in return for all our patience and understanding during the nearly year-long building works and wished us a Merry Christmas.
That was nice.
On Christmas Eve we’d cooked a sirloin beef joint and trimmings for my parents and father-in-law. A certain amount of drinking had accompanied the beef. Just as well we had two functioning toilets with the number of aging bladders in the house.
My parents were spending most of Christmas Day with my brother, sister-in-law and niblings, so we had a pre-Christmas Christmas the night before. Presents were exchanged. One Foot in the Algarve (digitally-remastered) played in the background. My parents bickering mixed pleasantly with the crackle of the open fire.
But before we knew it the evening had sashayed away. My parents had departed, everyone else with an ounce of sense had retired to bed and so it was just me and a cat left haunting the downstairs.
The majority of the presents were still huddled round the base of the fibre-optic tree, waiting to be rudely ripped asunder in the morning. The tree itself is ailing. It’s base is on the wonk and I’ve had to cheat certain branches towards the wall as some of the lights are failing.
We should probably invest in a new tree for next Christmas. But I think I said that last year. And If we threw out everything in the house with a wonky base that didn’t shine as brightly as it used to I’d be in the builder’s skip next to the tree.
Tarragon had bored of posing on the speaker and padded off to find somewhere in the house to sleep. I took that as my queue to do the same. I made a mental note to patch up the tree in the new year. And hopefully the same would happen to me.
Bedtime. Lights out. Advent Flog done for another year.
And to all a good night.
The Flog 