Altogether now: ‘Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…’ Sorry, but I’m just doing my best to keep my Christmas spirit going. Usually, I love the festive season. I get all excited and start humming ‘We Three Kings of Orient Are’ somewhere around mid-November. However, this week a couple of challenges have scuppered my yuletide boat.
Rewind to last Sunday, and it was like a fairy-tale scene from a Christmas card in our house – if the Christmas card was one of those talking ones that opens with a chorus of ‘who brought those bl**dy penguins out again!’
Yes, our three singing penguins had escaped from hibernation in the loft and were once again residing on the hall sideboard. They’re loud, irritating, and the lowest form of entertainment. God, I’ve missed them. Unfortunately, husband, not so much. At one point, he got so irritated with them bursting into a rousing rendition of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ every time he walked past, he started muttering ultimatums about it being ‘them or him’. We’ve taken to calling him Happy Feet in the hope that he’ll mellow and accept that they’re part of the family.
I eventually distracted him with the giddy joy of unleashing more seasonal tat. I asked him to put the outside decorations up, forgetting that every year it ends with him up a ladder, weeping with embarrassment while trying to balance a flashing reindeer, three neon elves and a set of icicle ropes on the roof.
However, at that moment I had bigger problems to deal with.
Just as I was about to talk him down and settle him in front of Sky Sports until the hysteria subsided, Low the Younger, aged seven, appeared clutching a sheet of paper. ‘Here you go, Mum,’ he announced. ‘It’s my letter to Santa.’
Aw, so sweet. My heart swelled with the festive excitement of it all. ‘What have you asked for?’ I cooed, ready for some kind of variation on the usual Lego/skateboard/bike combination.
‘Lego,’ he said. Tick. ‘A skateboard,’ he said. Tick. How well do I know my boy? I just waited for the final bike… Er, the bike. Come on, honey, add the bike.
‘And a dog.’
Cue sound of large sleigh hitting crash barriers. A dog.
Blissfully unaware that I was now in a worse state than his penguin-and-tat-averse father, he ploughed on. ‘And I’ve already got a name for it. I’m going to call him Murphy, after Gran.’
It took me a moment to update my understanding of the situation. Apparently, the bike was out. Replaced by a dog. One that was called after my lovely granny who passed away two years ago. It was like a whole festive, family Greek tragedy. With tinsel and three singing Antarctic marine birds in the hall.
I realised that I had to handle the situation with tenderness and honesty.
‘But honey, Santa isn’t allowed to bring pets on Christmas Day. It’s against the law.’
That would do it. Calm. Reasonable. Easy for him to absorb and accept. Until…
‘No it’s not,’ came the reply. ‘He brought my pal Ben a Dalmatian last year.’
Where are the Three Wise Men when you need them?
‘You see, Mum, Santa can bring anything. You just write three things on your letter and, as long as you’ve been good, he brings them to you. You can ask for anything at all.’
Sigh.
Dear Santa,
On Christmas morning I’d like the following:
A marriage counsellor. A penguin protection order. And a really great excuse as to why there isn’t a Dalmatian called Murphy sitting under my tree…