Is Love That Blind?
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Stormy weather ahead
The last senior executive forum (as we now must call our management meetings) before Christmas passed off reasonably peacefully and most notably without a single bollocking from Rosalind for yours truly.
But just as we were packing up, Ian, our ‘forward planning manger’, mentioned that there was a cold snap forecast for the weekend.
“Ah, that reminds me,“ said Rosalind, “could you dig out the Severe Weather Contingency Plan? I want to read it through over the holiday.”
My first thought was that Christmas sounded even less fun at chez Rosalind than it did at my place.
My second thought was to urge Ian to do the decent thing - and lie through his teeth.
For heaven’s sake man just tell her you’ll have it to her by the end of the day and then spend the next couple of hours cobbling something together to keep the silly cow busy during the Queen’s Speech.
But Ian isn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree and he was frowning.
“Er... I don’t think we’ve got one of those.”
Predictably, Rosalind hit the roof and immediately convened an emergency-planning meeting for the Monday before Christmas. This was a ‘mandatory’ meeting meaning that even those people on leave were expected to attend.
Monday was incredibly quiet, largely because most of our customers and competitors had done the decent thing and given their staff the week off.
So I decided to give Ella an idea of what she is letting herself in for and took her along to the meeting.
She had, by the way, reacted in typical fashion when I told her last week that I had recommended her for promotion.
“You’re taking the piss!”
“No I’m not - I think you deserve it.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Do I get more money?”
“Yes, but there’s a lot of extra responsibility too...”
“And a car?”
“Yes, but it is about more than just the perks...”
“And a mobile?”
“Yes, but only for business ca...”
“And a laptop?”
The gleam in her eye told me she had been possessed by the avarice fairy and there was no further point in reasoning with her.
Just before we entered the meeting room I took her to one side:
“Remember - you are here purely as an observer. So keep your gob shut!”
Well, there is a first time for everything.
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A letter to Becky
I don’t see the children on Christmas Day anymore. Another defeat. Perhaps I don’t fight hard enough.
I did dig my heels in and insist for a couple of years, but the bitter rows this produced made everyone miserable and so eventually I ran up the white flag.
Now I see them either on Boxing Day or the weekend after Christmas and I always plan a little treat.
This year I have booked a meal at a cracking Indian restaurant, where we can exchange our presents, followed by a trip to the panto.
That at least was the plan. Yesterday my eldest daughter, Rachel, rang to tell me that my second born, Rebecca, wouldn’t be coming. In fact she doesn’t want to see me at all over Christmas.
I should have seen this coming. Becky has hardly spoken to me for months - ever since I made my objection to her relationship with the crack dealer known.
OK, maybe he isn’t a crack dealer, but he looks like one.
What is beyond doubt is that he is 18 and Becky is 13. If, as I strongly suspect, this is a sexual relationship it is illegal. In fact it would make the crack dealer a child abuser. A paedophile.
I was very keen to make precisely this point to him when I met him for the first time at a school concert.
He smirked. My handshake then became much firmer and went on for longer than he anticipated and he ended up on his knees.
But I think he had a far better appreciation of my point of view. And he wasn’t smirking anymore.
Sara let it be known that she felt I had handled things like a total prat and had made the situation immeasurably worse.
Becky defaulted to teenage shriek mode: “I hate you! I wish you were dead! You’ve ruined my life! I wish I hadn’t been born!!!!” And variations on this theme.
Since then Becky has refused to see me or even speak on the phone.
We had a temporary truce in the summer when she was given no choice other to come on holiday with me.
She at least came up with some fresh shrieks: “Why have you brought us to this dump? Why no signal - don’t they have mobiles in Scotland? Why can’t we have a proper holiday like normal people?”
But I just played it cool and by the end of the holiday we were at least tolerating each other. She even laughed once or twice before she remembered how much she detested me.
I thought things would improve after this but they didn’t. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since.
People tell me this is just a normal teenage tantrum. But I’m not so sure. Becky inherited her mother’s pigheadedness and then added a whole new layer of obstinacy all of her own. This could go on for years, if not forever.
In truth I think things would go much more smoothly if she didn’t come on our Christmas treat. She’d be a pain in the neck and would try to spoil it for everyone else. Part of me just wants to let it go.
But I feel that not seeing or talking to her at all over Christmas – for the first time ever - would mark a point of no return in our relationship. Something would change irretrievably. There would be no going back.
So I’ve written her a letter. I’ve used a printed address label because if she saw my handwriting on the envelope she would throw it in the bin unopened as she apparently did with my Christmas card.
The tone is all-important. I want it to be friendly, light-hearted, not too desperate, with no hint of emotional blackmail. I don’t expect much. I just want to stick my foot in the door before it is shut forever.
Hi Becky
I’m sorry you can’t make it on Saturday. I thought the panto would be a laugh, but maybe it was the wrong choice. A bit too babyish perhaps?
If you prefer you can come along just for the meal and I’ll book a cab to take you home straight afterwards. It is a brilliant curry house and I chose it partly with you in mind. You have to watch out for the fresh chillies!
If you do change your mind, even at the last minute, there’s no problem, as I’ll keep hold of your ticket.
If not it would still be nice to see you at some time over the holiday if only for a few minutes, so I can wish you a Happy Christmas in person.
I know you think I’m being unfair and that I treat you like a little child and that I deliberately humiliated you, but everything I’ve done is because I care for you.
You are growing up so fast that sometimes it’s hard for me to keep up to speed.
We are never going to agree on everything and my views on certain matters are not going to change, but it doesn’t have to mean that we can’t be friends.
Perhaps we can make a fresh start in 2004?
In case we don’t manage meet up I’ll wish you a lovely Christmas and a great New Year.
Your ever loving
Daddy xxx
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Don't panic!
Friday night and I’ve done no Christmas shopping. Not one present.
No panic, there’s weeks to go yet.
Well, isn’t there?
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A very funny Christmas story
This is a hoot and a real treat for Christmas, made all the better because it is entirely true.
It takes a bit of getting through, but stick with it. It's worth it, I promise.
A few Christmases back I was delegated to buy the family Christmas Tree, and, as is my habit, I kept putting it off until it was almost too late.
Every day I would pass a little grocery shop on my way to work where the owner had piled a load of Christmas trees on the pavement for sale.
One morning a couple of days before Christmas I was on my way to work when I noticed he only had half a dozen left. I realised I had to buy it that day or I'd miss out and the children would have to do without a proper tree on the big day.
Later that afternoon I bunked off work a couple of hours early and set off for the shop. It had been bitterly cold and as I pulled out of the car park it started snowing heavily. In fact it was nothing short of a blizzard.
Readers from outside the UK should understand that we usually have pretty mild winters, with the result that on the rare occasion when we are hit by severe weather, we are entirely unprepared, and everything grinds to a halt.
It took me an hour and a half to make the 20-minute journey and by the time I arrived there was what can only be described as a 'white out' with five inches of snow covering everything.
In those days (and I'm going to show my age here, I'm afraid) I drove a little mushroom-coloured Fiat Uno that we Christened Bruno the Uno. I realised during this journey that I forgotten to fit the roof rack, so the only way of getting the tree home was to cram it inside the car. Should be fun, I thought.
I parked Bruno in a large supermarket car park opposite the row of shops where the grocer's shop was situated and legged it over the road just as he was shutting up for the night.
As luck had it, he had just one tree left and I bought it. The bad news was that it was an eight foot bedraggled monster that was already dropping its needles.
The snow was coming in horizontally now driven by a bitter wind, and I was wearing a light jacket, no hat or gloves and office shoes. I hoisted the tree on my shoulder and slipped and slithered back across the street to the car park.
I fancy I looked like an extra in a Franz Capra movie, but what happened next was stranger than even Hollywood fiction.
I was pretty wet and very cold by the time I reached the car. I leant the tree against the tailgate, brushed some of the snow from the driver's door and tried to open it. No luck. The key wouldn't turn.
Bugger! I thought. The locks must have frozen. I took the key out and breathed on it to warm it up in the hope that would thaw the lock. I tried again and after a fair bit of fiddling finally got the door open.
I leant across and opened the passenger door and then went around the back to open the tailgate. Again the key wouldn't turn and it took a good ten minutes of breathing on the key and jiggling it in the lock before I managed to open it.
I placed the tree trunk first in the car and shoved it as far as I could. Then I went around to the passenger door and pulled on the trunk until it was hard up against the windscreen. When I went back to the tailgate there was still three feet of tree sticking out the back and I had to bend it gently inside the car and snap the tailgate shut before the tree sprang back.
Mission accomplished, I then jumped into the driver's seat. The tree virtually filled the car and I had to push away some branches in order to get in. I couldn't see out of the back or side of the car because of this thick forest of Norwegian pine.
I put the key in the ignition and tried to start the car. Nothing! Buggering bugger! I took the key out and looked at it. It seemed fine so I tried again. Nothing. It wasn't just that the engine wouldn't start, but I couldn't even get the key to turn.
I hammered the steering wheel in frustration. Then something caught my attention. Hanging from the rear view mirror was one of those little traffic light air fresheners. I looked it for a moment as it swung gently before my puzzled face. I didn't remember seeing that before.
Then I looked around. Strange alien items swam into vision. The 'Please fasten your seatbelt' sign, the St Christopher's medal, the pack of chewing gum. With a mounting horror that drained the blood from my face it dawned on me that this wasn't my car!
I jumped out of the car as though my bum was on fire. I pushed some more snow off the bonnet. Right make, right model, right colour, right year. I cleared the snow from the number plate - shit!!! - not the right car!
I looked along the row of parked cars and sure enough, three spaces down, there was the unmistakable, snow-covered, outline of Bruno.
At this point I perhaps should explain to younger readers that this was before central locking, security deadlocks and fancy transponders. In those days you got a single key that opened all the doors and started the engine. When the key was worn it became useless as a security measure. On more than one occasion, for example, I managed to start Bruno using my front door key. So what happened isn't as far fetched as it might seem.
I stood for a couple of moments trying to swallow down the rising panic and wondering what to do. I mean how do I even begin trying to explain to the owner what I'd done when he or she came out of the supermarket?
Instead I opened the passenger door and began to drag the tree out by the trunk. I was none too gentle and by the time I'd yanked it free, it had deposited a bucket-load of needles inside the car.
I ran around to Bruno, opened the tailgate and repeated the loading operation - but with the right car this time.
For an instant I reasoned that maybe I should wait and at least attempt an explanation. Then I thought better of it. This was not the most salubrious part of town and I'd be lucky to escape with my teeth intact.
Instead, I drove off. But before I left I did the cruellest thing of all - I locked the bloody car!
I did this with the right intentions - to make it secure from thieves - but I now realise, that for the owner it must have added a new baffling layer of mystery to whole bizarre episode.
When I got home my wife and I laughed about it for a week. Every time I caught her eye, we'd burst out laughing. Even today I have a fit of the giggles when I think about it.
And I'm sure that somewhere there is a bloke who every Christmas looks at his wife and says: "Remember that time when we got back to the car after shopping to find it locked but ankle deep in pine needles. Now wasn't that weird!
True story - honest!
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Is Christmas a sinister plot?
OK, it's 11.50pm on Friday evening and I've just got home.
And until this very moment I've not sipped the merest drop of alcohol.
In the next month we have a total of three extra days off - Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Year's Day.
So why is everyone required to do two extra week's work to make up for the fact that we are taking three days off?
Weird isn't it?
Do you think Christmas is a dastardly capatalist plot to make us work harder?
Feeling slightly better now as alcohol level is increasing (rapidly).
Cheers!
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I don't care if it's good for me, I'm just not doing it!
Ella has been angry with me for weeks. She often goes off in a huff if I don’t do exactly as I’m told, and usually I bring her round with a bit of grovelling and flattery.
But I’ve been too busy and preoccupied with other things, and now I’ve simply forgotten what the original disagreement was about.
So I left her to stew, and she’s become more spikey and disagreeable as the days have gone by.
On Friday she came to my desk and threw down a file of papers in front of me:
“You’re going to have to change these work schedules.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve put Emily and Susannah on the same contract.”
“So?”
“Well, they don’t get on.”
“I’m not asking them to get on, I’m asking to do what they get paid for – work.”
Cue theatrical sigh and rolling of eyes heavenwards.
“It would just be better if you split them up. Emily can team up with Colin…”
“No! They’ll spend all day gossiping about Kat and Alfie and who’s the best looking one in Busted. That’s how Colin dropped us all in it last time.”
Ella has the ability to entirely ignore interventions with which she doesn’t agree. Other than a momentary pause it was as though I hadn’t spoken.
“…and then you can put Susannah with David!”
“And why should I want to put Susannah with David.”
“Because she fancies him.”
“Oh, so now we’re a dating agency too are we?”
“It would just be nice to get them together.”
“I’m not here to be nice Ella, but to get a job done. If Susannah wants to get inside David’s y-fronts she just going to ask him for a date.”
“She can’t do that. It would look desperate.”
“But she is desperate.”
“We know that, but it’s important David never finds out.”
“Not important to me.”
“It would just be better – everything would work much more smoothly.”
She’s probably right. She usually is. But I’m not backing down now. I feel like a four year old who’s been told to eat his cabbage – “I don’t care if it’s good for me, I’m just not eating it!”
“I’m sorry Ella, I’m not changing the schedules and that’s final.”
She picked up the file knocking my phone off the hook as she did so.
“If only you did as I say everything here would be so much better.”
“You’ve got this arse about face Ella. I’m your boss and I tell you what to do, not the other way around.”
“And you know why you are so grumpy?”
Conversations stopped, typing paused. Half the office waited for the answer.
“Because you’re not getting any!”
Sniggers from everyone in a thirty pace radius. Don’t you just hate open-plan offices?
In truth I don’t think I’ll be her boss for much longer. I’ve recommended Ella for a big promotion.
I must be stark, staring mad.
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Peter gets a taste of his own medicine
I’d never made a phone call like it before, but 3.45am seemed about the right time.
The first two times it connected me to the anwerphone after six rings and I had to dial again.
But on the third attempt he answered it:
“Hello?”
“If you ever touch any of my children I swear I’ll come and find you and I’ll kill you.
I don’t care what happens to me. I don’t care if I have to wait for you to come out of prison or if I have to follow you to the ends of the earth – but I’ll find you and I’ll kill you.”
All I could hear was his breathing. I put the phone down.
The frightening thing is – I meant every word.
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