January: The Least Wonderful Time of the Year
The first week of January is, without doubt, the worst time of the year and cracks are starting to appear. When an Amazon man hammered on our door at 7 a.m. the other day, Louise was less than thrilled.
“Why are you being so loud at this time?” she said.
“I wasn’t sure if anyone was in. Anyway, I’ve dropped off the package now.”
“Where have you put it?”
“I carefully placed it over your fence.”
“Do you mean our 8-foot fence? You carefully placed it over that? You definitely didn’t throw it?’
“Sorry, miss,” he said as if addressing a prison guard, before scuttling sheepishly down the drive.
.
With the boys’ birthdays falling on either side of Christmas, life becomes a relentless stream of delivery men from November to January. Aside from one chap who I’m fond of – he calls me “my guy” and makes me feel young again – I will be glad when this period is over, and I can work from home without having to leave meetings to answer the door to men dropping off Lion King tepees.
My own patience reached breaking point on Friday, the final day of a school holiday which has, it seems, lasted for months. I was manning the boys and, thinking it would be fun, told them they could pick where we went in the afternoon.
“South America,” said Joshua, who got a globe for Christmas.
“That’s a bit tricky. Any other ideas?”
“Tropical World,” said Jacob.
“Really? Again? Anywhere that isn’t South America or Tropical World?”
“You said we could pick, Daddy.”
“Fine.”
True to form, the boys tore around the place, showing little interest in the new Indian Crested porcupines and, within half an hour, we were in the gift shop while they made their demands. Being a pushover/bad-parent-given-they-got-plenty-of-presents-for-Christmas, I agreed they could get “something small,” a term ostensibly open to interpretation. Twenty minutes later, we left with Joshua clutching some Godawful rubber spider, and Jacob saying he didn’t want anything in protest to my unwillingness to purchase a large fluffy Orangutan for £19.99.
With time to kill, I thought we’d call into the supermarket on the way back which turned out to be a wretched decision. To give the boys credit, they have been pretty well behaved for the majority of the Christmas holidays. Friday afternoon at the big Sainsbury’s on the ring road, though, proved one step too far. Jacob changed his mind re: not wanting anything (“It’s not fair, Joshua got a spider…” etc.,) so I agreed he could have a Surprise Bubble which is, for the uninitiated, plastic tat in a plastic ball that children lose interest in within 8 minutes. For £8. He and Joshua then started running around, booting the ball down the aisles and I jog-walked after them, gritting my teeth and pleading they stop.
Predictably, one of them (not sure who as they blamed each other) kicked the ball under some shelves where it got stuck and will, I suspect, remain forever.
“Boys!” I said, raising my voice through gritted teeth. “Why are neither of you listening to a word I say?”
At this very moment, a woman in her fifties approached me.
“Hi, love,” she said. “I’m buying my son a dressing gown for his birthday. He’s a similar height to you. Do you mind trying it on?”
Really? Now? I thought, astounded by the woman’s stunning lack of awareness.
“Sure.”
For those wondering, it was a perfect fit and I’m sure her son will be delighted with his present.
After removing the dressing gown, I picked up another Surprise Bubble on the proviso nobody kicked it, then traipsed the aisles of the alcohol-free booze to stock up for our latest attempt at a dry January which is already seeming ambitious. Self-checkouts are hell at the best of times but, with Joshua insistent on “helping” by repeatedly picking up the bottle of raspberry and elderflower tonic I’d bought for Louise (later declared “undrinkable”) from the bagging area, our red light kept flashing, the robot woman kept talking, and I longed for something stronger than a 0.0% can of Heineken.
Back in the car, as Jacob hacked away at his Surprise Bubble, shards of yellow plastic flying everywhere, I got the feeling I was missing something but couldn’t put my finger on it. Halfway home, I looked in the rear-view mirror and realized my glasses were not on my face and pulled over in a side street.
“Have either of you seen my glasses?” I asked the boys.
They had not.
I patted my pockets, shone my phone torch under the seats and, in an act of desperation, rummaged through the boot, but it was to no avail. As well as being an expensive inconvenience, this loss was particularly galling/humiliating given the glasses in question were only posted back to me a few days ago after I left them at Louise’s mum’s house in Kent at Christmas. It might be time to explore laser eye surgery.
We got home just as Louise was finishing work.
“Hiya,” she said. “Did you have a good afternoon?”
Acting with sterling maturity, I grunted in response before unpacking the bags in silence and standing in the kitchen alone for a few minutes.
“I’ve lost my glasses again,” I said eventually.
Louise just looked at me and shook her head.
Later, I did that thing where you get annoyed with your spouse because you are annoyed with yourself and picked an entirely unnecessary argument about what to watch on TV, making some, in hindsight, judgmental comments about the artistic merits of Dubai Bling before trudging upstairs to watch a football match that I had little interest in on a screen I couldn’t see properly.
By the following morning, I had calmed down and was starting to think rationally. I called Tropical World and was informed that my glasses had been found in the Meerkat House and handed in. I then approached Louise.
“Dear wife, I don’t suppose you could give me a lift to Tropical World to pick up my specs please?”
“Hmm. I can but it’s unbelievably annoying, Andy.”
“Sorry, miss,” I said before scuttling sheepishly down the drive.
***
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