Tardition

Apple-Oh-Gees! I actually started writing this the day after ChristHiggsBoson, but was interrupted by lethargy and being drunk. For two weeks. Looking back at this paragraph, I think I can safely say it is amongst my feeblest work.

Certain things must happen at the end of the year, unless you're one of those who practice their subtly different crazy-backward-nonsense-rooted-in-superstition at some other point in this insignificant rock's dance round the star.

Critically, or perhaps fatally, you must spend time with family. This would be great if all my family lived in one place, but they don't, so it isn't. Instead of coming home for Christmas, I leave what I consider to be my home - defined as the place where I store the largest amount of underwear - and travel across the sea to tour Britain on my trusty steed, the rail replacement service bus. My tour stops at various sites of cultural interest including my mother's house which doubles as the U.K. Department of surplus weapons grade cushions and scented candles; a high security holding facility run by my father, wherein visitors can be mauled by ferocious two-year-olds; and most astonishing of all, a pub in Oxford packed with female midgets. The male midgets must have got the wrong address. I used to have to visit my grandparents too, but they have thoughtfully simplified my travel arrangements by expiring.

Of course there are also the debilitating tv schedules, and one simply must watch computer animated animals voiced by racial stereotypes going CRAZEE, 'comedies' with names like 'How to Lose a Day in Ten Guys' or repeats of last year's repeats of repeats. The needless repetition is not confined to broadcast entertainment though. Oh no.

When I began to write this part, I had intended to vent my bile purely at the female members of my family (no mean feat and requiring years of training in manipulation of the gallbladder) but then my father ruined everything by engaging in similar behaviour. Imagine you have just sat down at a large table for a family meal. Amassed ahead of you are legion serving dishes, piled high with dead things, both animal and vegetable, resplendent in their various juices and over the soaring peaks of which you can just make out Great Aunt Ethel's blue rinse. The host will now say something like, "Please help yourselves". Cunningly, serving spoons have been provided for just this purpose. The host will then sit down and immediately get back up, leaving the table to collect another unfortunate prior example of Earth's rich biodiversity, lying roasted, yet forgotten, in the kitchen. By the time they have returned everyone has managed to stop dribbling and plates are either filled or well on their way. The host now sets about disturbing your preparations.

"Do you want some potatoes?"

"I already took some thanks." They are potato shaped objects on your plate.

"Sweet corn?" The dish is thrust in your direction, despite it having been easily within reach.

"No thanks, I'm fine at the moment."

"Are you sure?"

Are you sure? Of course you are bloody sure. This is why, one, you didn't take any sodding sweet corn in the first place and two, you politely declined the needless offer. The whole family are able-bodied, and yet still the host finds it necessary to entertain the possibility that you are incompetent with a spoon or otherwise unable to fulfill your own desires vis-a-vis deciding what you would like to put in your mouth. Despite a transmission of total disgust and disbelief via eye contact, you know that this amusing scenario will be played out again and again during the meal, reaching its apex when you finish your plate and the possibility of suggesting you help yourself to seconds - it is after all polite to wait for approval - is discounted by the host in favour of offering you every single item again. One at a time. And always followed by: "Are you sure?"

Meanwhile across the table, the traditional telling of the anecdotes has started. Of course you have heard them all before, but are willing to overlook the transgression because they are funny and gain something from being recounted out loud. What is aggravating is that various other family members who are as, if not more, familiar with the tales as you, act as though they have never heard them before. Whether a mass attack of senility or disingenuousness, this is still troubling. Do you really know these people?

And yet the torment of the Christmas period can be utterly transformed into elation on boxing day by the traditional family walk, as one hour away from the car park, you are passed by a haggard father dragging a brand-new shiny red bicycle, upon which sits a teary, disgruntled and exhausted toddler, whining that he just wants to go home. Oh the joy of giving.

On the subject of selfless charity and in a surprise move, someone has offered me a job. It's for three years and situated in picturesque Crushingly-Soullessville.

I also received some other mail: a 2010 membership card for the NRA, albeit with someone else's name on it, and a letter from the Federal Department of Personnel with 'Have a Nice Day' printed on the front of the envelope.