Ritalin Boy was the first one to wake up this morning.
I am not, as you know, an early riser, and when we heard him whispering urgently outside our bedroom, some time around the dawn hour, I was not overwhelmed with Christmas spirit.
Obviously we got up anyway, and actually it was about half past eight. He was so excited and happy that we were glad we had made the uphill struggle into wakefulness. As it happened we were quite pleased that we had not done it any faster as well, because one of the dogs had had an accident on the floor, and Number One Son-In-Law had helpfully cleaned it up.
It turned out that He Had Been, by whom I mean Father Christmas, not the dog, obviously. Lucy and Oliver were prised out of their beds as well, and we had a small but merry half an hour drinking coffee and watching children opening their stockings.
Ritalin Boy had some splendid presents, some of which would have done credit to a neighbour of mine who once set himself a personal challenge to buy the most annoying presents for Numbers One and Two Daughters that anybody possibly could. My sister beat him one year with recorders, but the slurpy slime came very close.
Ritalin Boy had slurpy slime as well, a hideously viscous green liquid stuff that he loved and that I could not take my eyes off, with a sort of car crash fascination. He had some more slime in a small plastic toilet which made disconcerting noises when he squidged it. On the same theme he had a small stretchy rubber poo, which became a weapon and a missile at various times during the day, not to mention poked at everybody’s bottom whilst he accused them of having had a mishap. This pleased him very much.
He had a small flying poo as well, a sort of helicopter affair which crashed around the living room and made him howl with laughter, and there was another flying thing which turned out to be a sort of miniature drone. Roger Poopy is determined to catch and eat this last, so it may not have a very long life.
All in all he had some enormously satisfying presents, which was brilliant, every one more joyous than the last. Father Christmas, boringly, had only brought things like shower gel and sweets for the other children. This was their own fault for never putting in a request for a flying poo.
When the stockings had been emptied we thought it wise to take the dogs out, because there really is a limit to the amount of poo you want in your house on Christmas Day. It was mild and sunny. We all put coats and boots on, and spent a cheery hour hiking up to the top of the fell and looking at Windermere from above. It is not easy going for a walk with Number One Daughter and Number One Son-In-Law. Their complete absence of breathlessness reminds you that you are shockingly unfit whilst you are huffing and puffing up the last few yards.
We came home to the most enormous breakfast of bacon and egg and cheese on toast, and then Number One Daughter and Number One Son-In-Law went off for a run around the village and Mark went to the farm for some firewood.
I tidied up a bit, and then did the nicest thing. I sat on the sofa by myself and read a book and ate a mince pie.
I can’t remember the last time I had time to sit and read a book at home, not just between taxi customers, and it felt gloriously decadent. It is very nice not to be getting ready for Christmas any more.
We watched a film later on. This had an irritatingly dull plot, but which was such an absolute joy to look at that the story turned out not to be important at all. It was a Disney adaptation of the Nutcracker. They had abandoned the story in favour of some tiresome drivel of their own creation, but it was a masterpiece of extravagant design, and in the end I liked it very much, and it can’t have been that bad really, because even Ritalin Boy sat still for the whole lot.
We had dinner in the Indian restaurant across the road.
I loved this.
Obviously we drank too much, and giggled and squeaked, and the waiter got into a complete flap of incompetence and in the end Number One Son-In-Law had to check his pad for him and correct some of his more glaring errors of understanding. This did not matter in the least, because I had a Tandoori buttered chicken, which was wonderful.
We opened our Christmas presents after dinner, which was rather splendid. Apart from my parents’ massively generous Christmas gesture of paying off a huge chunk of school fees, a present which brought warm liquid relief to my very soul, I think my favourites were a splendid scented candle, which not only smelled nice, it was one of the sort that I like with a crackly wooden wick. Also we had a calendar with pictures of camper vans in beautiful places around the world, all of which I would very much like to visit.
Roger Poopy bought Mark a pile of books, which was jolly kind of him, because they are all books that I would like to read as well, so I can help out there.
We ended the day with a round of Gordonstoun Monopoly, which is like normal Monopoly except you can buy Duffus House instead of Mayfair, and finish up paying school fees and tuck shop bills. Number One Son-In-Law won, which must have been just simple good fortune, because he was at least as drunk as all the rest of us, if not possibly worse.
It is over now.
I am not in the least sad about this. It has been lovely, happy and interesting and warm, with lovely things to eat and an abundance of good wine.
All the same, it is nice that it is over. I will be glad to subside back into my quiet little life, without all of this excitement.
Back to work tomorrow.
The picture is the author, just before bedtime on Christmas Eve.
