three in the afternoon. ‘The guy has so many by now, I’m surprised he doesn’t have them up for sale on eBay’.
And so to my second Christmas wish: some alone time with Dan. Did you ever see a couple that needed it more? Now traditionally at the practice, we always host a little mulled wine and mince pies party on Christmas Eve, just after the surgery closes and before everyone drifts offtheir separate ways. We’re only closed till the twenty-seventh and of course, I’m cooking Christmas dinner for Dan and his family tomorrow, but I’m still hopeful that not only will Dan and I get to spend all of Christmas night alone together, but the whole of Stephen’s Day too.
I’ve totally spelt it out to him. I’ve told him that this is our bit of time, for us and for no one else. That this means an awful lot to me and that by God we were going to make the most of it. No work, no farm calls, no phones ringing, no half the town descending on the house, just him and me. A.L.O.N.E. That with a possible year apart hanging over us, surely he agreed that we had a lot to talk about? Course his mobile rang in the middle of my big speech, so I doubt he took in most of what I was saying, but still.
Point made. Cards laid on table.
Come Christmas Eve and I’m at The Moorings, frantically getting everything organised for said staff drinks party. I’d already decorated the house, even remembering to put up the Christmas tree in the exact spot ordained by Audrey year-in-year-out. Though why she doesn’t just put masking tape on the carpet to save her all the bother of whinging at me that it’s not in its precise place, I’ll never know.
Anyroadup, if I say so myself, the place looks terrific: the fire in the drawing room is blazing away, cheesy, cheery Christmas songs are playing in the background and the mulled wine is mulling. I think to take my mind off the play, I’ve been over-compensating by acting like Nigella on speed these past few days. By some miracle, I’ve managed to do all the shopping for Christmas Day and not forget anything, tidied the house from top to bottom and still found time to squeeze in an appointment to get my big bushy head of hair blow-dried straight for the holidays.Well, straight-ish, given that my hair actually grows outwards and not downwards. Not unlike Sideshow Bob’s in The Simpsons.
Come six pm and just as the last patient leaves the surgery, suddenly the drawing room seems packed with people: Dan, Andrew, James, the intern, Mrs Brophy yelling at everyone and of course Jules who’s been here all day, supposedly helping me, but who’s actually spent most of the afternoon slumped on a couch with a bridge of saliva between her knees and chin, watching It’s a Wonderful Life on TV.
The room is buzzing, everyone’s laughing and enjoying themselves and just as I’m racing around in my good Karen Millen LBD, topping up glasses and making sure everyone’s stuffing their faces with mince pies…surprise surprise…the phone in the hall rings.
Silence as we all look at each other and all you can hear is Shane McGowan rasping ‘Fairytale of New York’ in the background.
‘WHAT WAS THAT?’ yells poor, half-deaf Mrs Brophy.
‘Phone,’ says Andrew, pointedly not budging. ‘Must be a patient.’
Shane McGowan and Kirstie MacColl are growling out the bit where they call each other scumbags and maggots, while tension suddenly bounces off the four walls of the drawing room.
‘I’ll take it,’ Dan volunteers.
‘No, no, stay and relax, I’m sure whoever it is will understand that it’s Christmas Eve and that we’ve closed up for the holidays,’ Andrew smiles benignly. But it’s loo late – Dan’s already out the door. I’m focusing on handing out mince pies and desperately trying to convince myself that this is absolutely NO indication of how things will be overthe short holiday when the practice is closed and when Dan is meant to be taking a break .
Two minutes later, he’s
And so to my second Christmas wish: some alone time with Dan. Did you ever see a couple that needed it more? Now traditionally at the practice, we always host a little mulled wine and mince pies party on Christmas Eve, just after the surgery closes and before everyone drifts offtheir separate ways. We’re only closed till the twenty-seventh and of course, I’m cooking Christmas dinner for Dan and his family tomorrow, but I’m still hopeful that not only will Dan and I get to spend all of Christmas night alone together, but the whole of Stephen’s Day too.
I’ve totally spelt it out to him. I’ve told him that this is our bit of time, for us and for no one else. That this means an awful lot to me and that by God we were going to make the most of it. No work, no farm calls, no phones ringing, no half the town descending on the house, just him and me. A.L.O.N.E. That with a possible year apart hanging over us, surely he agreed that we had a lot to talk about? Course his mobile rang in the middle of my big speech, so I doubt he took in most of what I was saying, but still.
Point made. Cards laid on table.
Come Christmas Eve and I’m at The Moorings, frantically getting everything organised for said staff drinks party. I’d already decorated the house, even remembering to put up the Christmas tree in the exact spot ordained by Audrey year-in-year-out. Though why she doesn’t just put masking tape on the carpet to save her all the bother of whinging at me that it’s not in its precise place, I’ll never know.
Anyroadup, if I say so myself, the place looks terrific: the fire in the drawing room is blazing away, cheesy, cheery Christmas songs are playing in the background and the mulled wine is mulling. I think to take my mind off the play, I’ve been over-compensating by acting like Nigella on speed these past few days. By some miracle, I’ve managed to do all the shopping for Christmas Day and not forget anything, tidied the house from top to bottom and still found time to squeeze in an appointment to get my big bushy head of hair blow-dried straight for the holidays.Well, straight-ish, given that my hair actually grows outwards and not downwards. Not unlike Sideshow Bob’s in The Simpsons.
Come six pm and just as the last patient leaves the surgery, suddenly the drawing room seems packed with people: Dan, Andrew, James, the intern, Mrs Brophy yelling at everyone and of course Jules who’s been here all day, supposedly helping me, but who’s actually spent most of the afternoon slumped on a couch with a bridge of saliva between her knees and chin, watching It’s a Wonderful Life on TV.
The room is buzzing, everyone’s laughing and enjoying themselves and just as I’m racing around in my good Karen Millen LBD, topping up glasses and making sure everyone’s stuffing their faces with mince pies…surprise surprise…the phone in the hall rings.
Silence as we all look at each other and all you can hear is Shane McGowan rasping ‘Fairytale of New York’ in the background.
‘WHAT WAS THAT?’ yells poor, half-deaf Mrs Brophy.
‘Phone,’ says Andrew, pointedly not budging. ‘Must be a patient.’
Shane McGowan and Kirstie MacColl are growling out the bit where they call each other scumbags and maggots, while tension suddenly bounces off the four walls of the drawing room.
‘I’ll take it,’ Dan volunteers.
‘No, no, stay and relax, I’m sure whoever it is will understand that it’s Christmas Eve and that we’ve closed up for the holidays,’ Andrew smiles benignly. But it’s loo late – Dan’s already out the door. I’m focusing on handing out mince pies and desperately trying to convince myself that this is absolutely NO indication of how things will be overthe short holiday when the practice is closed and when Dan is meant to be taking a break .
Two minutes later, he’s
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