Chapter Twenty-Five #2
Present for Joe’s godson, Arthur, who we never see and who lives in Canada so will need to post early.
Check international posting dates.
Oh dear – ask Joe to call Arthur and let him know that a gift will be with him in the new year.
Presents for people at work? Individual or generic? Budget? Ask Malia about last year. Secret Santa?
Remind Joe to get presents for his admin team.
Easier to buy presents for Joe’s admin team myself.
Wrapping paper (sustainable and recyclable – never sure if the regular stuff can go in the green bin or not?) Might be easiest just to use plain brown paper and decorate it myself with fun festive motifs? But also, see colossal list of jobs. Buy basic rolls in multipack and hope for the best.
Christmas cards – are we sending? How to set up e-greeting? Is e-greeting a bit lame? Nice to get cards from friends, and also older people like getting cards. Buy ones with percentage of profits going to charity – also make sure they’re not shit ones.
Check posting dates – allow time to write and sort addresses.
Set up spreadsheet on computer with everyone’s addresses rather than relying on the address book I was given by Great Aunt Muriel when I was fourteen.
Get tree.
Decorate tree and house once Layla home? Would it be better to have it all Christmassy when she gets home? Ask Joe for his thoughts.
Don’t ask Joe – he won’t know.
Deep clean whole house including grout in shower cubicle as now green / black and may contain fungal spores.
Replace cracked loo seat in cloakroom as pinched buttock yesterday – now looks like love-bite.
See if I can get golf ball out of vacuum hose – may need new hoover.
Wash all bedding and towels.
Get special Christmas towels out of attic.
Food – OMG – continued on separate lists: a) normal day-to-day food (pages 1–2) and b) Christmas food (pages 3–14).
Have nervous breakdown about how in Holy Hell we are ever going to be able to afford list items 1–25.
By the time Joe arrived home I was feeling rather frazzled, and the risotto had stuck to the bottom of the pan. I started to tell him about Mum and the emergency trip to the sexual health clinic, but he wasn’t really listening. Probably just as well.
‘Layla was busy,’ I said as I pushed a forkful of risotto around my plate. ‘This evening. I messaged her earlier, but she had a late lecture.’
‘Hmm?’ He was staring down at his empty plate. ‘Any more of this in the oven?’
‘Uhm. No. I only made enough for two. There’ve been so many times in the past few weeks that I’ve had to throw out leftovers, forgetting there are no longer three of us to share it. I’ve finally got the hang of reducing quantities.’
‘Just in time for having to upscale again when she comes home.’
‘I know.’ I consulted my list – addendum 25a) normal day-to-day food.
‘I’ve got so much to sort out before then in terms of meals and making sure we’ve got all her favourite stuff in.
I’m just not sure when I’m going to be able to cook.
Maybe Thursday night when I’m back from work, but that’ll mean I probably can’t sort dinner for us at the same time.
If I’m making lasagne for her first evening at home and also baking a batch of gingerbread, and then Mum was going to come over on the Sunday for a roast, so I’ve got to make sure that’s covered too, with a pudding.
I’ll probably make that chocolate mousse…
Thing is,’ I sighed, ‘I’m working every day this week so that I’ve got some days to take in lieu while Layla’s home and –’ I looked at the list again, which just seemed to grow exponentially every time I glanced at it – ‘I don’t know how I’m going to do it. ’
My voice had evidently become a bit tremulous because Joe finally looked up from his plate and paid me some attention.
‘You alright, love?’ he said, with the air of a man who has not been listening and is now worried he might be asked to recall with some precision exactly what his wife was wanging on about.
‘I’m just feeling a bit – overwhelmed,’ I said, moving plates to the dishwasher with unnecessary speed and brutality. A hot flush was prickling up my neck, and I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to bawl my eyes out or smash something. Or both.
‘Why’s that then?’ he asked mildly. ‘What have you got to feel overwhelmed about?’
(Oh, the touching naiveté of a man asking that question of his highly stressed and perimenopausal wife.)
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said, my voice now very shrill.
‘Maybe about the fact that Christmas is almost here and I haven’t got anything sorted yet and Layla is coming home and I want everything to be just right because it’s her first Christmas back from university but I’m starting to worry that I haven’t bought her any presents yet and maybe that’s because I don’t really know what she might want, and this is the first time in her entire life that I haven’t had a reasonably good idea of what she might like, what kinds of clothes she’d choose to wear or books she’d want to read, and to think that my daughter is maybe becoming a bit of a stranger to me now is disconcerting to say the least and makes me feel constantly on the verge of tears. ’
I paused for breath just long enough for Joe to look like he was going to say something before I continued.
‘And also it’s really important that she has a nice time this holiday because some people’s kids just don’t really want to come home for the holidays and maybe they just want to visit friends and go and stay with other people’s families and I want to make sure she’s not one of those kids and that she always wants to come home and so we need to make sure everything is exactly as she wants it and that’s going to be difficult when I’m working and also when I’m feeling a bit hormonal generally and worrying about Mum because we fell out today and I was a bit brusque with her and you know me and how I’m not really like that with Mum – ever – and also I was a bit freaked out by seeing all those middle-aged businessmen at the clinic and thinking maybe they’re all having affairs and so perhaps you’re having an affair too and how would I know given that you spend so much time playing golf when really I have no way of checking that you’re actually playing golf and you could easily be saying you are when you’re not and isn’t a golf club actually a perfect foil for an affair because you can pretty much guarantee that I wouldn’t follow you there or be interested in joining you so you’ve got free rein to do as you please. ’
And with that I burst into tears leaving my husband cowering in his chair, completely baffled and unable to make sense of anything I’d said.