the boys of the nypd choir still singing galway baaaaaaay
Christmas a fantastic flurry of food and flooding and family and friends. There was other stuff, but 'a shit ton of red wine' and 'occasionally some tenseness' didn't alliterate quite so pleasingly.
Anyway. Generally this Christmas season has treated me well. The exercise, the mindfulness and the acceptance that it's okay to be glum at this time of year meant that I enjoyed the bright lights that is the run up to Christmas. On Sunday Richie and I did indeed go ahead and do our mini-Christmas with each other. He got me some awesome gifts, including a t-shirt that proudly reads "I know my value. Anybody else's opinion doesn't really matter". In fact, two of them, as the first one failed to arrive and then the replacement turned up around the same time as the first one. The shop said he could keep both anyway, so I have two versions. HURRAH. He also got me tickets to see some upcoming comedy shows, most excitingly being Eddie Izzard next month. Yay!
Work on Monday and Tuesday was, at best, minimal. I am okay with this. So was my boss. I left at 3pm on Tuesday and picked up the last bits I need for Christmas, and came home to pack up my stuff and relax for one final evening, as well as do the now nightly Tree Clean Up. On Wednesday we trundled up to Ormskirk. We'd not been able to get seat reservations, so we were primed and ready to leap madly for the train and the unreserved coach. As soon as they announced the platform, we were off like greased lightning. Not running, because that is undignified, but that peculiarly British brisk pace that just did not stop, politely weaving around people and at one point I must admit I just jumped over a fallen suitcase. Richie and I got seats, put our stuff in the overhead spaces, and did a high-five as we settled in. Ironically it turned out the entire train was unreserved as the system was broken. Whoops...
We arrived in Ormskirk and Dad kindly gave us a lift from the station and even waited for us in a nearby car park so we could go to the bank and shut down our save to buy account. "Have you got your mortgage together and a place to buy?" the lady kindly offered. We laughed, and cheerfully told her if George Osbourne wants to give us money for this we were just changing accounts. (Seriously, cut benefits to people who actually need them but cheerfully give both Richie and I tax free money just for saving to buy a house?? But I'm not going to turn it down.) We used the lump sum to pay off the remaining debts, we still have lump sums to start two separate ISAs with in the new year, and did I mention starting 2016 debt free? ABOUT BLOODY TIME. (Okay, we both still have student loans, but they don't count.)
Grandad came for Christmas at my parent's house this year. Unfortunately that meant Marian came too. I, er, yeah. We had to ban my mum from loudly singing the chorus of Gold Digger at her, no matter how much I quite wanted Mum to do a Kanye West impression. Grandad has recently paid for a hip replacement operation for her. He has sold his house. She has taken some of my grandmother's clothes. We are all generally unhappy at her. Plus the whole 'comes along to everything and does not pay for anything and does not offer thanks at any time for this'. That goes down badly in my family. Sigh.
Anyway. They also arrived on Wednesday and we all had Chinese takeaway, which I ate about three tonnes of, and then just had a night in front of the telly as Mum attempted to explain what was going on in the various soap operas.
"So Eric Pollard is still alive?"
"Yeah, but Val's dead. She got her head cut off."
"They have ISIS in Emmerdale now?!"
"No, helicopter crash."
"THAT DOESN'T MAKE ANY MORE SENSE!"
Christmas Eve was a day I had glibly offered to cook. It's a lot of pressure on my parent's to have everyone around, so I said I would make something. Imagine my surprise about three weeks ago when Mum said she was making cauliflower cheese. I protested and said I would cook. We could have a gammon joint, I can make that, I said. We'll do baked potatoes. It'll be easy.
Now, I have cooked many a gammon joint for Richie but they come in little packets from Sainsburys that clearly explain timings and have a glaze and stuff. Imagine my horror when I was presented with a gammon joint designed for ten people. Fucknuts, I mumbled under my breath, and tried to work out how long it should be cooked for. Roast for 30 minutes per 0.5kg of meat, loads of other stuff. There I was at 3.30pm on Christmas Eve, scoring the fat with a cleaver and inserting loads of cloves. At least, I thought, no one else has ever cooked a gammon joint. No one will know if I do this wrong. We'll blame the size of it. That'll be foolproof. Did I mention I have never EATEN gammon before and had no intention of starting now?
It all worked out in the end, despite the Cassandra-esque mumblings from two generations of my family behind me about the cheese sauce Richie was making, that the potatoes will NO WAY be baked in two hours, etc. The meal was good. Everyone ate it. Mum froze the leftovers. There was enough gammon to feed everyone for days. VICTORY. I confessed anyway.
Richie and I went out that night to catch up with Matt and whichever other Ormskirk people were around. Earlier in that day, before hacking at the gammon, I had fulfilled one of my big aims for when I started running, which was to go out for a run with Richie around Coronation Park, the big park next to my parent's house. It was a roaring success, Richie outpaced me and lapped me occasionally shouting "on your left!" and I got my best ever time and distance. I put something on facebook about this, so when I got to the pub, Matt immediately collared me.
Matt: What were you doing, running around Coronation Park?!
Me: Where else would I run?
Danny: Was something chasing you? Was it Rollerblading Grandad?
Me (laughing): Bloody hell, that would have been scary. Is Rollerblading Grandad still a thing?
Kieron: No, he's died! It was front page of The Champion!
Ah, Ormskirk. We ended up in the Greyhound pub, as all in attendance are no longer Ormskirk residents and from what we could tell all of the boozers we had lovingly known were either trendy bars, student bars or in one notable case a Turkish restaurant. The Greyhound was about it from our underage drinking years and was broadcasting a full Christmas Eve mass loudly. It was cheap and we all caught up and laughed and general good times.
Christmas Day dawned bright and early and as is tradition we ended up drinking Bucks Fizz from 11am. My sister still wasn't due back until later on that day, so we watched the new Dangermouse and The Clangers, as you do, whilst parents pottered around and sorted out the roast. Megan came home and then the meal was served. I had been looking forward to it for about three years but I was a wee bit disappointed. I've more or less cut out putting salt in food when I cook (or only the tiniest pinch to get the water boiling) and it was a much saltier meal than I was prepared for. This may or may not have been the start of the ridiculous indigestion and heartburn that crippled me for the rest of the afternoon; I mean, normally my first Christmas indigestion pills are on Boxing Day! We opened presents after dinner anyway, and I got a series of lovely gifts as the 'kids' spent the afternoon sat on the floor. We were able to watch Doctor Who (hurrah!) and the wine kicked in as we watched Strictly and Gogglesprogs. Did not watch Downton Abbey for complicated reasons involving annoying Marian.
Boxing Day itself was the day the North flooded. Ormskirk never floods, so imagine the horror when it flooded. The park resembled a lake. Water ran off the hill behind my parent's road and flooded through garages and gardens, although luckily on the other side of the crescent rather than theirs. Eeek. Luckily it did start to ease off long enough for Grandad to leave and take Marian with him, and Megan went off as well. A massive sigh of relief was breathed all around. Everyone got to sit on a real chair. We drank a lot of wine and ate Quality Street. For some reason we watched that film about Paul Potts and spent a lot of time shouting "WHY IS CHIEF O'BRIEN JAMES CORDEN'S DAD? WHY COULDN'T THEY FIND A REAL WELSH PERSON FOR ANY OF THESE ROLES?!" Matt ended up coming around in the evening and he and I stayed up until 2.30am and played darts.
Yesterday we came home, though. I might actually be sober now. We spent last night of our own actual bed, instead of an airbed on my childhood bedroom floor. This time of year is a very weird on in the UK. We get Christmas Day and Boxing Day as bank holidays, and as Boxing Day was on a Saturday it's now a bank holiday Monday. The next three days are technically working days, but London remains quiet and the workforce is minimal. For the first time in four years, I am amongst those waiting at home in pajamas and feeling confused. On Wednesday we're having Friendsmas as a drop-in session as Richie is working and we have friends who are on shifts so are popping around when they can. I am making a buffet. It'll be interesting, particularly as I'm working on New Year's Eve to cover for the receptionist...
Anyway. Generally this Christmas season has treated me well. The exercise, the mindfulness and the acceptance that it's okay to be glum at this time of year meant that I enjoyed the bright lights that is the run up to Christmas. On Sunday Richie and I did indeed go ahead and do our mini-Christmas with each other. He got me some awesome gifts, including a t-shirt that proudly reads "I know my value. Anybody else's opinion doesn't really matter". In fact, two of them, as the first one failed to arrive and then the replacement turned up around the same time as the first one. The shop said he could keep both anyway, so I have two versions. HURRAH. He also got me tickets to see some upcoming comedy shows, most excitingly being Eddie Izzard next month. Yay!
Work on Monday and Tuesday was, at best, minimal. I am okay with this. So was my boss. I left at 3pm on Tuesday and picked up the last bits I need for Christmas, and came home to pack up my stuff and relax for one final evening, as well as do the now nightly Tree Clean Up. On Wednesday we trundled up to Ormskirk. We'd not been able to get seat reservations, so we were primed and ready to leap madly for the train and the unreserved coach. As soon as they announced the platform, we were off like greased lightning. Not running, because that is undignified, but that peculiarly British brisk pace that just did not stop, politely weaving around people and at one point I must admit I just jumped over a fallen suitcase. Richie and I got seats, put our stuff in the overhead spaces, and did a high-five as we settled in. Ironically it turned out the entire train was unreserved as the system was broken. Whoops...
We arrived in Ormskirk and Dad kindly gave us a lift from the station and even waited for us in a nearby car park so we could go to the bank and shut down our save to buy account. "Have you got your mortgage together and a place to buy?" the lady kindly offered. We laughed, and cheerfully told her if George Osbourne wants to give us money for this we were just changing accounts. (Seriously, cut benefits to people who actually need them but cheerfully give both Richie and I tax free money just for saving to buy a house?? But I'm not going to turn it down.) We used the lump sum to pay off the remaining debts, we still have lump sums to start two separate ISAs with in the new year, and did I mention starting 2016 debt free? ABOUT BLOODY TIME. (Okay, we both still have student loans, but they don't count.)
Grandad came for Christmas at my parent's house this year. Unfortunately that meant Marian came too. I, er, yeah. We had to ban my mum from loudly singing the chorus of Gold Digger at her, no matter how much I quite wanted Mum to do a Kanye West impression. Grandad has recently paid for a hip replacement operation for her. He has sold his house. She has taken some of my grandmother's clothes. We are all generally unhappy at her. Plus the whole 'comes along to everything and does not pay for anything and does not offer thanks at any time for this'. That goes down badly in my family. Sigh.
Anyway. They also arrived on Wednesday and we all had Chinese takeaway, which I ate about three tonnes of, and then just had a night in front of the telly as Mum attempted to explain what was going on in the various soap operas.
"So Eric Pollard is still alive?"
"Yeah, but Val's dead. She got her head cut off."
"They have ISIS in Emmerdale now?!"
"No, helicopter crash."
"THAT DOESN'T MAKE ANY MORE SENSE!"
Christmas Eve was a day I had glibly offered to cook. It's a lot of pressure on my parent's to have everyone around, so I said I would make something. Imagine my surprise about three weeks ago when Mum said she was making cauliflower cheese. I protested and said I would cook. We could have a gammon joint, I can make that, I said. We'll do baked potatoes. It'll be easy.
Now, I have cooked many a gammon joint for Richie but they come in little packets from Sainsburys that clearly explain timings and have a glaze and stuff. Imagine my horror when I was presented with a gammon joint designed for ten people. Fucknuts, I mumbled under my breath, and tried to work out how long it should be cooked for. Roast for 30 minutes per 0.5kg of meat, loads of other stuff. There I was at 3.30pm on Christmas Eve, scoring the fat with a cleaver and inserting loads of cloves. At least, I thought, no one else has ever cooked a gammon joint. No one will know if I do this wrong. We'll blame the size of it. That'll be foolproof. Did I mention I have never EATEN gammon before and had no intention of starting now?
It all worked out in the end, despite the Cassandra-esque mumblings from two generations of my family behind me about the cheese sauce Richie was making, that the potatoes will NO WAY be baked in two hours, etc. The meal was good. Everyone ate it. Mum froze the leftovers. There was enough gammon to feed everyone for days. VICTORY. I confessed anyway.
Richie and I went out that night to catch up with Matt and whichever other Ormskirk people were around. Earlier in that day, before hacking at the gammon, I had fulfilled one of my big aims for when I started running, which was to go out for a run with Richie around Coronation Park, the big park next to my parent's house. It was a roaring success, Richie outpaced me and lapped me occasionally shouting "on your left!" and I got my best ever time and distance. I put something on facebook about this, so when I got to the pub, Matt immediately collared me.
Matt: What were you doing, running around Coronation Park?!
Me: Where else would I run?
Danny: Was something chasing you? Was it Rollerblading Grandad?
Me (laughing): Bloody hell, that would have been scary. Is Rollerblading Grandad still a thing?
Kieron: No, he's died! It was front page of The Champion!
Ah, Ormskirk. We ended up in the Greyhound pub, as all in attendance are no longer Ormskirk residents and from what we could tell all of the boozers we had lovingly known were either trendy bars, student bars or in one notable case a Turkish restaurant. The Greyhound was about it from our underage drinking years and was broadcasting a full Christmas Eve mass loudly. It was cheap and we all caught up and laughed and general good times.
Christmas Day dawned bright and early and as is tradition we ended up drinking Bucks Fizz from 11am. My sister still wasn't due back until later on that day, so we watched the new Dangermouse and The Clangers, as you do, whilst parents pottered around and sorted out the roast. Megan came home and then the meal was served. I had been looking forward to it for about three years but I was a wee bit disappointed. I've more or less cut out putting salt in food when I cook (or only the tiniest pinch to get the water boiling) and it was a much saltier meal than I was prepared for. This may or may not have been the start of the ridiculous indigestion and heartburn that crippled me for the rest of the afternoon; I mean, normally my first Christmas indigestion pills are on Boxing Day! We opened presents after dinner anyway, and I got a series of lovely gifts as the 'kids' spent the afternoon sat on the floor. We were able to watch Doctor Who (hurrah!) and the wine kicked in as we watched Strictly and Gogglesprogs. Did not watch Downton Abbey for complicated reasons involving annoying Marian.
Boxing Day itself was the day the North flooded. Ormskirk never floods, so imagine the horror when it flooded. The park resembled a lake. Water ran off the hill behind my parent's road and flooded through garages and gardens, although luckily on the other side of the crescent rather than theirs. Eeek. Luckily it did start to ease off long enough for Grandad to leave and take Marian with him, and Megan went off as well. A massive sigh of relief was breathed all around. Everyone got to sit on a real chair. We drank a lot of wine and ate Quality Street. For some reason we watched that film about Paul Potts and spent a lot of time shouting "WHY IS CHIEF O'BRIEN JAMES CORDEN'S DAD? WHY COULDN'T THEY FIND A REAL WELSH PERSON FOR ANY OF THESE ROLES?!" Matt ended up coming around in the evening and he and I stayed up until 2.30am and played darts.
Yesterday we came home, though. I might actually be sober now. We spent last night of our own actual bed, instead of an airbed on my childhood bedroom floor. This time of year is a very weird on in the UK. We get Christmas Day and Boxing Day as bank holidays, and as Boxing Day was on a Saturday it's now a bank holiday Monday. The next three days are technically working days, but London remains quiet and the workforce is minimal. For the first time in four years, I am amongst those waiting at home in pajamas and feeling confused. On Wednesday we're having Friendsmas as a drop-in session as Richie is working and we have friends who are on shifts so are popping around when they can. I am making a buffet. It'll be interesting, particularly as I'm working on New Year's Eve to cover for the receptionist...