fact that
she is at least a woman. Or so we are given to understand.
It’s a little hard to tell.
All I need now is for Colin Firth to turn up wearing a
hand-knitted jumper featuring Christmas trees and robins.
Actually, that is all I need. That, and a right good-‘Sara, love, there you are! It’s all right, Muriel, I’ve
found her, she’s by the sausage rolls. Did you drop
something, dear? Almost didn’t see you there behind the
sofa. No? Well, out you come then.’
‘Pearl, sorry, no, actually I was just on my way to
the—’
‘That’s Auntie Pearl to you, Little Miss-AU-GrownUp!’
Great-Auntie, if we’re going to be picky.
I smile weakly. ‘Sorry, I—’
I’m enveloped in a hug reeking of eau-de-mothball and
menopause. ‘Not too old to give your Auntie a kiss at
least, I hope? That’s a good girl. Oh, dear, your hair really is very short, isn’t it, lovey? You look like a boy. Your mum did warn me. Never mind, it’ll grow back. Now,
then, stop skulking in a corner and come and say hello to
everyone. No need to be shy.’
Actually, having to say hello to everyone is precisely why I’m skulking in a corner, and trust me, shyness has never been the problem. I cut my teeth on the boys in
this room, and from the way most of them are either
(a) glaring at or (b) studiously avoiding me, I’d guess
they’re still nursing the bite marks.
My mother has been throwing her Christmas Day
soirees since the days when I still believed that having an
old man in red pyjamas sneaking into your bedroom at
night with presents was a good thing. It combines her two
favourite occupations: showing off (to the downmarket
relatives) and social climbing (with the upmarket neighbours).
It also gives her a very good excuse to replace the
carpet every January because of wine stains.
God knows why my father goes along with it. Poor
Dad. He hates parties. He usually slopes off to the greenhouse
with Uncle Denny once HRH has addressed the
nation, where they while away the afternoon leering over
the collection of soft porn Dad thinks no one knows he
keeps in a plastic bag under the cucumber cloches. Way
to go, Dad; though I’m not sure about the Busty Beauties mags. Some of those girls look positively deformed.
Every Christmas the usual suspects pitch up clutching
their homemade trifles and hideous poinsettias (what
is it with these loathsome mini-triffids?) plus or minus
the odd newborngranny at either end of the mortal coil.
Which means that over the years, I’ve played snakes
and ladders, doctors and nurses, Monopoly, PlayStation,
blackjack, and doctors and nurses again, with the same
assortment of cousins and neighbours’ sons. In fact, due
to extreme amorous laziness on my part, at one point or
another I’ve dated most of them, for periods ranging from
an hour to a year. These annual festive get-togethers are
an excruciating exhumation of my romantic roadkill.
First was Gareth, who, every time he met my parents,
hugged my dad and shook hands with my mother. He
was a bit odd, to be honest. I told him I loved kittens and
he took me to see a lion cub at the zoo. And he zigzagged
when he mowed the lawn.
Mark had even smaller nostrils than me. Our children
would have had gills. I dumped him forty minutes after
our first snog before one of us suffocated.
Cousin Jonathan was - and still is - the most gorgeous
man I’ve ever dated; a less stroppy Jude Law. He came
out three weeks after we started seeing each other Jonathan,
that is. I suppose I should have guessed when I
signed us up for a dirty dancing course at the Y, and he
asked if they offered ballet.
Daryl was sweet. But dim. I told him I needed space
and he spring-cleaned my wardrobe.
And then there was Andrew. Women have a dozen
mental channels, and manage to keep all their thoughts
separate in their heads. Andrew had only two. The first:
‘Can I get sex out of this?’ And the second: ‘I’m
she is at least a woman. Or so we are given to understand.
It’s a little hard to tell.
All I need now is for Colin Firth to turn up wearing a
hand-knitted jumper featuring Christmas trees and robins.
Actually, that is all I need. That, and a right good-‘Sara, love, there you are! It’s all right, Muriel, I’ve
found her, she’s by the sausage rolls. Did you drop
something, dear? Almost didn’t see you there behind the
sofa. No? Well, out you come then.’
‘Pearl, sorry, no, actually I was just on my way to
the—’
‘That’s Auntie Pearl to you, Little Miss-AU-GrownUp!’
Great-Auntie, if we’re going to be picky.
I smile weakly. ‘Sorry, I—’
I’m enveloped in a hug reeking of eau-de-mothball and
menopause. ‘Not too old to give your Auntie a kiss at
least, I hope? That’s a good girl. Oh, dear, your hair really is very short, isn’t it, lovey? You look like a boy. Your mum did warn me. Never mind, it’ll grow back. Now,
then, stop skulking in a corner and come and say hello to
everyone. No need to be shy.’
Actually, having to say hello to everyone is precisely why I’m skulking in a corner, and trust me, shyness has never been the problem. I cut my teeth on the boys in
this room, and from the way most of them are either
(a) glaring at or (b) studiously avoiding me, I’d guess
they’re still nursing the bite marks.
My mother has been throwing her Christmas Day
soirees since the days when I still believed that having an
old man in red pyjamas sneaking into your bedroom at
night with presents was a good thing. It combines her two
favourite occupations: showing off (to the downmarket
relatives) and social climbing (with the upmarket neighbours).
It also gives her a very good excuse to replace the
carpet every January because of wine stains.
God knows why my father goes along with it. Poor
Dad. He hates parties. He usually slopes off to the greenhouse
with Uncle Denny once HRH has addressed the
nation, where they while away the afternoon leering over
the collection of soft porn Dad thinks no one knows he
keeps in a plastic bag under the cucumber cloches. Way
to go, Dad; though I’m not sure about the Busty Beauties mags. Some of those girls look positively deformed.
Every Christmas the usual suspects pitch up clutching
their homemade trifles and hideous poinsettias (what
is it with these loathsome mini-triffids?) plus or minus
the odd newborngranny at either end of the mortal coil.
Which means that over the years, I’ve played snakes
and ladders, doctors and nurses, Monopoly, PlayStation,
blackjack, and doctors and nurses again, with the same
assortment of cousins and neighbours’ sons. In fact, due
to extreme amorous laziness on my part, at one point or
another I’ve dated most of them, for periods ranging from
an hour to a year. These annual festive get-togethers are
an excruciating exhumation of my romantic roadkill.
First was Gareth, who, every time he met my parents,
hugged my dad and shook hands with my mother. He
was a bit odd, to be honest. I told him I loved kittens and
he took me to see a lion cub at the zoo. And he zigzagged
when he mowed the lawn.
Mark had even smaller nostrils than me. Our children
would have had gills. I dumped him forty minutes after
our first snog before one of us suffocated.
Cousin Jonathan was - and still is - the most gorgeous
man I’ve ever dated; a less stroppy Jude Law. He came
out three weeks after we started seeing each other Jonathan,
that is. I suppose I should have guessed when I
signed us up for a dirty dancing course at the Y, and he
asked if they offered ballet.
Daryl was sweet. But dim. I told him I needed space
and he spring-cleaned my wardrobe.
And then there was Andrew. Women have a dozen
mental channels, and manage to keep all their thoughts
separate in their heads. Andrew had only two. The first:
‘Can I get sex out of this?’ And the second: ‘I’m
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