For many people, the “festive feeling” seems to happen all of a sudden. Perhaps when the television start spewing festive infused adverts and idents, or when the Christmas lights get turned on in their local town or village. For me the Christmas feeling is like the onset of a disease. You might feel a few symptoms here and there, but the full debilitating effects of illness are a gradual process. The only time I can fully relax into the Christmas spirit is when I have achieved all my shopping for presents. Which is usually around December 29th.
I did actually go to see the Christmas lights get turned on in our village for the first ever time this year. Being a small village, it was understandably a quite humble affair. At one point I even heard the rather sinister sounding announcement that Santa was - I quote - “round the back of the barbers giving presents for a pound”. So it was a humility which walked a fine line between the festive and the squalid. But personally speaking, there just didn’t seem festive about freezing my arse off, staring at light bulbs on a cold November night. I'll just remember having to purchase a cup of chicken soup from one of the makeshift stalls, just so I could hold it and try to warm some feeling back into my hands. Don’t get me wrong, I did drink it. But the cup of soup served much better as a hand warmer than a meaty beverage. For starters, the broth seemed devoid of any meat. Obviously there was a kind of chicken vibe to it and I’ve little doubt a chicken had been involved somewhere along the line (perhaps in some sort of homeopathic sense), but there seemed to be no actual substantial lumps of meat to chew. There were lumps to chew, but they were technically large clumps of congealed stock powder, all with a sticky, salty phlegm-like texture. The only way to face swallowing them was to try and delude yourself they were small dumplings. But in your heart you were always conscious of the truth, and couldn’t help but feel a bit nauseated whenever one of the globules slipped down your throat. And it wasn’t even that pleasant Christmas sickness you get from the gluttonous indulgence Jesus likes you to have.
The thickness of this particular broth also caused a bit of a problem. After keeping my hands warm a while, the cup was still rather hot, so the first sip I braved was taken with a degree of caution. The temperature seemed quite agreeable. And having allowed this initial taster to build by confidence up, I took a bigger slurp. But the cold weather had only really cooled the surface, like it would when forming an icy layer on top of a pond. Consequently I was left with damp-glazen eyes, quivery face and puffy lips as I had to force burning lava down my gullet. I suppose I could have spat rather than obliged a torturous swallow. But it just felt inappropriate to expel translucent creamy liquid out of a spasming face whilst in the presence of so many young children. It wouldn’t be fair to traumatise them. They’d already had endure the sinister grotto round the back of the barbers to get whatever presents Santa had for them.
So this day of soup-angst did little to fill me with the festive spirit. And neither did the Xmas-ing up of television. I tried to watch a movie about the superhero Batman the other day. Christmas is largely the only time when I can indulge in such schlock without feeling pangs of guilt or the abhorrent self-loathings of a timewaster. But clearly my mindset is still too set in work-mode to enjoy Hollywood frivolity. I sat through the antics of the caped crusader witnessing futuristic transport systems being torn apart, buildings getting irreparable damaged, innocent by-standers suffering injury. And I did so with a sense of great civil servant’s distraction, tallying all the insurance claims that would inevitably hit the council of Gotham City. It may have been all been a bit of harmless rollercoaster action to you, but all I could see was an unfolding bureaucratic nightmare. And not just for the Gotham council either. What about that Batmobile tearing around causing all them cars to crash and flip over on busy highways? Batman may well want to live a life of shadowy anonymity but is this really any excuse for him not to have the insurance policy like the rest of us? It just seems irresponsible; inconsiderate to the other road users really. Particularly for any victims who only have Third Party cover for their vehicles. What the hell happen to them? The premiums are going to be sky-high in the next financial year. It’s bad enough here in the Midlands, where thick people make a claim against the council after tripping over on a paving slab. So you wouldn’t catch me moving to Gotham City. Given the financial impact all that mayhem would have on public sector finances, I’d be out of job in a week. I very much doubt they’d have the budgets for me to book The Chippendales or Derek Acorah when they perpetually seem to have a city to rebuild. My best prospect might well be a career of hefty financial claims of my own, probably from soup-related injuries at Christmas gatherings.
Incidentally, I would not really sue over the soup burns I have endured. I maintain enough dignity to take responsibility for my own actions. When I slugged the aforementioned scorching broth, it may well have caused aural blistering, stripping the roof of my mouth. But as the burnt skin flaked away, dropping on to my tongue, it didn’t seem so bad. The way I saw it, at least there was something more authentically meaty to chew on beyond the bobbing tumours of powdery lumps; even if it was the flesh from my own mouth. I’m lead to believe human flesh tastes a bit like chicken anyway.
A Cracked Windscreen and a Dented Ego
I finally got my cracked windscreen replaced today. This is the same crack which occurred way back in January, when I was driving to Liverpool for a third interview for a job I wasn’t even sure I even wanted. I remember mentioning my uncertainties about the job to friends and family, but I opted to follow their advice, as they maintained, “you might as well go to the interviews, it won’t cost you anything.” This, of course, turned out to be bollocks. Firstly, I had to pay petrol for three trips to Liverpool (£60). Then there was the City Centre parking (£12). I also had to prepare a presentation for the interview, but since my printer cartridge ran out I had to buy 2 new ones especially (another £40). And to put the icing on the cake, my windscreen got cracked by a stone as I cautiously trailed behind a lorry on the motorway. So with the £75 insurance excess I’ve just shelled out for my windscreen replacement, I’m still paying for that damn interview now! It currently tallies up to £186.00. Even if there had been no monetary payments involved it still cost three days holiday. I shall never listen to my friends and family again. They are clearly delusional fools.
It is shocking to think that I have literally been staring at a crack for almost a year (and not in a good way). I probably wouldn’t have realised this had I not recorded the original incident in my blog. These writings only serve to confirm my suspicions that I am procrastinating fool. I have had the crack so long now that I have now become accustomed to the sense of dread and fear whenever I am about to drive over a speed bump, because of that advert where some driver’s windscreen crack gets bigger after doing so. Incidentally this never actually happened to me on a single occasion, but I never failed to expect it to. That’s the power of adverts I suppose.
The Autoglass man was due to arrive between 9 and 1, meaning I had to sacrifice my weekend lie-in to ensure I was awake and ready in time for his arrival. I knew he would not be here for 9 and that I would be lolling about for a good couple of hours, but I do like to be considerate and prepared. Not that preparation EVER goes to plan. He arrived about half eleven and typically did so right at the very moment I had commenced opening my morning bowels. There was a moment of sheer chilling panic when the door-bell rang. I knew I had reached the point of no return and all I could do was sit helplessly on the porcelain. Luckily my Dad was on hand to answer the door. By my calculations this is the 52nd advantage of living with my Dad that I have counted so far.
I finished my ablutions and went outside to meet him. By this time, Dad had already made him a cup of tea, meaning there was very little material left for me to greet him with. I stood awkwardly on the pavement for a bit, struggling to think of small talk to engage him whilst wishing I was somewhere else. Beyond the sanctity of tea-making (which had already been covered) I never really know what the social protocol is when somebody comes to your house to do a job. Is it polite to try and chat, or is that irritating and distracting? Is it best to simply make tea and then leave them to do their job, or is this seen as stand-offish and rude? Eventually he asked me, “Is this your first car son?” From a comment like this, it is natural to have assumed he thought I must have been rather young. Maybe shaving my goatee and losing my paedo-chic had given a fresh, youthful appearance. But in my heart I suspect he drew this conclusion because I was a man who appeared to still be living with his Dad; and that since I drive a Nissan Micra, it was clear I have not progressed as far on the automobile aspirations ladder than a man of my age probably should have. So in other words, if I appeared young, it was mainly for the wrong and slightly depressing reasons, all borne of my own stunted social development.
I went back inside and left him to work on his own.
Half an hour later, the windscreen had been fully replaced. The evil Autoglass man summoned me to give me advice. In order to allow the adhesive on my new glass a chance to stick, I should not drive my car for the next hour. I must not go through a car wash within the next 24 hours. And for the next day or so I should not exceed 50 m.p.h. He gave me a wink when he told me the last one, adding “not driving 100 m.p.h. like you usually would”. Clearly he had concluded my mistaken youthfulness would inevitably mean I was some sort of Nissan Micra-driving boy racer. Since it is unlikely he will ever glimpse my birth certificate or experiences being my passenger, he will never appreciate how hilariously off the mark his assumptions were. My only hope is that one day I will glimpse his horrible, patronising face in my rear-view mirror, seething with frustration as he crawls on along the road behind me, waiting for an opportune moment to overtake.
It is shocking to think that I have literally been staring at a crack for almost a year (and not in a good way). I probably wouldn’t have realised this had I not recorded the original incident in my blog. These writings only serve to confirm my suspicions that I am procrastinating fool. I have had the crack so long now that I have now become accustomed to the sense of dread and fear whenever I am about to drive over a speed bump, because of that advert where some driver’s windscreen crack gets bigger after doing so. Incidentally this never actually happened to me on a single occasion, but I never failed to expect it to. That’s the power of adverts I suppose.
The Autoglass man was due to arrive between 9 and 1, meaning I had to sacrifice my weekend lie-in to ensure I was awake and ready in time for his arrival. I knew he would not be here for 9 and that I would be lolling about for a good couple of hours, but I do like to be considerate and prepared. Not that preparation EVER goes to plan. He arrived about half eleven and typically did so right at the very moment I had commenced opening my morning bowels. There was a moment of sheer chilling panic when the door-bell rang. I knew I had reached the point of no return and all I could do was sit helplessly on the porcelain. Luckily my Dad was on hand to answer the door. By my calculations this is the 52nd advantage of living with my Dad that I have counted so far.
I finished my ablutions and went outside to meet him. By this time, Dad had already made him a cup of tea, meaning there was very little material left for me to greet him with. I stood awkwardly on the pavement for a bit, struggling to think of small talk to engage him whilst wishing I was somewhere else. Beyond the sanctity of tea-making (which had already been covered) I never really know what the social protocol is when somebody comes to your house to do a job. Is it polite to try and chat, or is that irritating and distracting? Is it best to simply make tea and then leave them to do their job, or is this seen as stand-offish and rude? Eventually he asked me, “Is this your first car son?” From a comment like this, it is natural to have assumed he thought I must have been rather young. Maybe shaving my goatee and losing my paedo-chic had given a fresh, youthful appearance. But in my heart I suspect he drew this conclusion because I was a man who appeared to still be living with his Dad; and that since I drive a Nissan Micra, it was clear I have not progressed as far on the automobile aspirations ladder than a man of my age probably should have. So in other words, if I appeared young, it was mainly for the wrong and slightly depressing reasons, all borne of my own stunted social development.
I went back inside and left him to work on his own.
Half an hour later, the windscreen had been fully replaced. The evil Autoglass man summoned me to give me advice. In order to allow the adhesive on my new glass a chance to stick, I should not drive my car for the next hour. I must not go through a car wash within the next 24 hours. And for the next day or so I should not exceed 50 m.p.h. He gave me a wink when he told me the last one, adding “not driving 100 m.p.h. like you usually would”. Clearly he had concluded my mistaken youthfulness would inevitably mean I was some sort of Nissan Micra-driving boy racer. Since it is unlikely he will ever glimpse my birth certificate or experiences being my passenger, he will never appreciate how hilariously off the mark his assumptions were. My only hope is that one day I will glimpse his horrible, patronising face in my rear-view mirror, seething with frustration as he crawls on along the road behind me, waiting for an opportune moment to overtake.
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