Never let it be said I don’t keep things real on this blog.
Thank heavens that’s all over for another year. Christmas Day was the worst I’ve ever had.
I’m not the world’s biggest fan of Christmas anyway – I hate the way that these days it seems to start at the beginning of November and drag on for two months. There is a constant assault from TV, magazines, shops, newspapers, adverts, EVERYWHERE in fact, which makes us feel as though everything has to be perfect, and that’s it’s a huge, massive deal.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – given the choice, I would jet off to the sunshine and spend December 25 lying on a beach with a cocktail in one hand and a good book in the other, blissfully oblivious to the whole thing. Unfortunately, however, my family don’t feel the same way, so each year I put on my game face, buy the presents, brave the supermarket crowds, put up my decorations and get on with it, breathing a big sigh of relief when it’s all over.
I got up early on Christmas Day, made everybody a cup of tea and took it to them in bed and went back to the kitchen to tackle some bits of washing up from the night before. One of which was a roasting tin which Ashley had cooked a joint of beef in the previous evening.
I had just finished the washing up when Ashley arrived in the kitchen and literally exploded because I had washed the roasting tin up – apparently he’d been planning to reuse the beef fat that was in the bottom of it. I’m not sure exactly how I was supposed to know that, as he hadn’t bothered to share that piece of information with me, but apparently I was.
Well, he went ballistic. He ranted and raved, reduced me to tears (all by 8am on Christmas morning), and spent the whole rest of the day – I kid you not – in a foul mood, making nasty remarks all day. By 8pm, I was ready to walk out of the house and never come back.
He did eventually apologise before we went to bed, but by then Christmas Day had been ruined for me. It was awful.
Days later, we discussed it again. He was still angry about the beef fat, completely out of proportion to the point of utter weirdness. I pointed out to him that he’d been more cheerful on the Christmas five (six?) years ago that his father was in hospital a week away from dying of cancer, than he had been this year when I’d inadvertently chucked some beef fat down the sink. I really hope that got through to him. Arse.
So yeah, that was my Christmas Day. Do hope yours was better.