Carol’s Column

Well, hello Mother Christmas!

DID you ever get the impression that Christmas is a one-woman show?

Like: "Darling, I've invited the family for Christmas lunch."

"What, all 124 of them?"

"No, Uncle Arthur can't come he's going birdwatching in the Alps with a divorcee he met at the Warmbaths Spa while taking the waters."

"Birdwatching in the Alps? Lucky Uncle Arthur. Well, what about the other 123 of them?"

"Oh, they're all coming — won't that be fun?"

Fun?

And my husband of too many years titters off into the lounge to sink into his favourite armchair, open a beer and contemplate a happy family Christmas lunch.

Like: "Ma! Is it OK if we have a small Christmas Eve party here for a few of the boys?"

"Yes, Barry, that would be fun — it's a lovely idea."

(The psychologists say never repress your children. Encourage their friends to come home. An open house discourages drinking, drugging and other anti-social behaviour.)

"Ma, we'll organise the music and the decorations and you can do the food. I know how much you enjoy feeding the boys."

"Great, great . . . er, how many are coming?"

"About two hundred or so."

"Is that all?"

"Well, Ma, you know what it's like at Christmas, everyone's away at the sea. This is just the remnants."

Two hundred remnants?

Do you ever get the feeling that Christmas is a one-woman show?

Like: "Honeybunch, I'll leave the tree to you this year. You weren't too happy with last year's tree."

Or the one before that.

Well, would you be happy with a 10-metre tree that took up the whole lounge and meant we had to sit in the entrance hall after Christmas dinner?

Because to have ventured into the lounge would have meant being stabbed in the eye, or worse, by a gay tinsel and bauble-bedecked spiked bough.

Mind you, the year before we'd had the only Christmas tree in the country totally without boughs, when my husband, a sympathetic, gentle man, compassionate by nature, feeling sorry for the spindly, boughless tree, brought it home.

Did you ever get the feeling that Christmas is a one-woman show?

Like:

"Carol, have you sent off the Christmas cards yet?"

"No, I have developed paralysis of my right arm, elbow, hand and finger digits because signing 1 004 Christmas cards with a personal message of endearment is not a joke."

Like: "Honeybunch, have you bought all the presents?"

"The cerise scarf for my mother, the bed socks for yours. The hookah for Uncle Fred. The little gifts for Tom, Dick and Harry and Mary, Martha, Margaret and Mabel?"

"No, I haven't had a chance to pop up to the shops yet because I've been stirring the Christmas pudding, making the mince pies, deep-freezing the cherry tartlets and glazing the turkey.

"But don't worry, I'll do it after I've put up the mistletoe, seasoned the stuffing, shampooed the dogs, vacuumed the house, shone the silver and made up the spare beds for the Cape Town gang."

"And listen, Honeybunch, don't forget to call in the builder to widen the chimney. Remember how I got stuck last year. Hey, why don't you be Father Christmas this year? You'd make a great Father Christmas."

Did you ever get the feeling that Christmas was a one-woman show?

If not, why not?

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