On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me… stress, interludes of panic, and an overwhelming urge to tell Santa where to stick his ho, ho, ho’s.
Actually, none of these things have been caused by my true love, but since he is the ‘blame default setting’ for everything that goes wrong in this house, he’s being made to suffer.
To be honest (and I reserve the right to deny this admission when it suits), this week’s mayhem is all down to unforeseen circumstances and the fact that I could have Janet Street Porter’s dental superiority and I’d still have bitten off more than I could chew.
And it’s all the more perplexing because I was sure I was organised. Obviously, however, I missed chapter 327 of The Mothering Manual – the one entitled: ‘In the Run-up to Christmas Your Children Will Suddenly Adopt the Social Life of a Magaluf tour rep.’
I’m no longer just a mother; I’m now my two boys’ Entertainment Co-ordinator. My three-year-old has been to more parties in the last week than I’ve been to in a year. He now thinks Santa is his new best friend and will be gutted if the fat bloke in the red suit doesn’t start popping round one night a week for a play date. My five-year-old’s schedule is even more frantic. This is his first year in school so he has a packed programme of nativity plays, carol services, parties and Christmas lunches. And each event sees me running around like a headless turkey organising the appropriate clothes, food and presents, while answering questions about the logic of our Christmas traditions – like why does Santa use reindeers when helicopters would be far more efficient?
Still, at least things aren’t too pressured work-wise at the moment. It’s not as if it’s only nine days, three hours and forty-two minutes until my next book is due to be delivered to my publisher’s office. Hear that thudding noise? That’s the sound of me hitting the floor in a panic-induced faint. Nine days, at least two of which will be written off due to the medical condition chocmintos toxicosis – the inability to move from the couch due to chronic abuse of After Eights.
I could weep. Actually, I did on Sunday, when one of my hands got jammed in the garage door. Cue big bandage. Oh, yes, it never rains but it snows. Nine days to finish the book and I’m down to one hand – meaning my normal two-finger typing output has been reduced to a single digit.
Present wrapping has also been transformed from a fun, festive task into a feat of one-handed contortion. And last-minute festive gift buying will necessitate asking shop assistants to tie things to my back.
Incidentally, on the subject of shopping, I had all my gifts in by the end of November. Then I got to Chapter 328 of The Mothering Manual: Small Children Change Their Minds About What They Want for Christmas on a Daily Basis. Santa would need to have multiple personality disorder to deal with the wishes of my wee elves. Yesterday: a Power Rangers’ suit, an Action Man and Robin Hood’s castle. Today: a Batman bike, a skateboard and a pet reindeer. In the last month I’ve spent more time at the Toys R Us returns desk than the people who work there.
I’m just keeping my sore fingers crossed that all the mayhem subsides and I get back to ambidextrous living by Christmas Day. We’re planning a solemn, peaceful occasion – right up until fourteen people show up for lunch. Fourteen. People. Christmas. Lunch. Sorry, I had to repeat that because I’m still in denial. I am the woman for whom cordon bleu cooking involves a sandwich toaster. I hate food preparation with a passion normally reserved for expense-cheating politicians and anything containing cranberries.
So a wee message to my one true love – forget the partridge in the pear tree. On the first day of Christmas I’d like a new bandage, a secretary, a personal shopper, two happy wee boys and the entire staff of our local Chinese restaurant. And if Santa’s a bit pushed, just get him to bring it all by helicopter.