A Christmas Carol

Blimey, it's coming up for 51 Christmas' now, since Santa dragged me down the chimney, all covered in soot.

The folks claimed I was a huge surprise (yes, huge - I recall no mention of wonderful, wanted or beautiful in this conversation..).  Like the ever increasingly bizarre knitwear my dear old gran loved to sic on us, seems Santa received a job-lot of babies in his cabbage patch that year.  This sounded reasonably plausible to me. It certainly explained away those spells I often spent, bundled away at the back of the closet, along with those aforementioned sweaters from our gran.  (Och no, dry your eyes, I'm only joking, we didn't own a closet, it was a coal bunker, and I went in voluntarily, much to my Ma's increasing consternation.. but I digress, my early taste for coal has little to do with this post.)


So yeah, Santa.  I swallowed that story whole.  Can you imagine the trauma caused when a couple of my so-called "mates" decided to break it to me Santa doesn't exist?   

Proper upsetting it was. 

Big sis' soon made them take it all back again, but by then the seeds of niggling doubt had sprouted. Too late to feed me the stork story, yet far too early to spell out the gritty truth, I was left to work it out on my own.

It wasn't so bad, favouring the adoption angle, I realised I'm actually a princess. At least now I had a kingdom to inherit, and the gleeful prospect of eventually lording it over the sibs. Delusions of grandeur provides certain comforts. I adjusted.  

The actual circumstances surrounding my birth were rather less romantic. Half a week well over-due, and a home-birth, it took a whole two days to persuade me from the womb, and even then it required the help of a set of forceps  to drag me out. Maybe I sensed being born in to the thriteenth apartment on the block hardly heralded an auspicious start?

They had to send for the Doc in the end.  Rumour has it he  was carving his roast at the time, and refused to budge until the last of the meal was through, so it fell to Carol (yeah, you read that right - Carol) the midwife, to mainly hold the fort until his almost too late arrival.

Da said I arrived looking like an angry old man, all red, wrinkled, and with this huge, pointy bald head. Ma told me straight up, Christmas turkey never quite tasted the same after that. I can't say as I blame her, she being only 4ft 10in, and with me weighing in at a hefty 10lb 10oz, it's little wonder she woke up in a cold sweat thereafter, every Christmas.  A full ten years on it took her, to brace herself to muster enough courage to complete our family.

Family legend has it that Neil Sedaka was belting out "Oh, Carol" on the radio, as my mother did likewise, but for different reason. Okay, I grudgingly admit it marginally beats being called Noel, but I still think my mother showed a stunning lack of imagination, christening me Carol, as she did.


Still, that proved the least of my problems.



See, it's all fine and well to have a Christmas birthday, yes, granted, you are always guaranteed the day off school, and there is usually  some bit of a party to be found -  but even taking all that into count, it hardly takes the brain of Britain to fathom you sure could choose a better day to arrive in to the world. 

Forgive me for being crass here, but what kind of a kid wants to share their big day being upstaged by someone ELSE'S birthday? Especially since half of it tends to be spent singing THEIR praises, sitting on a cold, hard pew, and in some old, draughty church?


And here's another thing - grown-up's are such fibbers, aren't they? "Oh, here, wee Carol, happy birthday! We've bought you a bigger present than the others, seeing as how it's your birthday and all.." 

What a complete load of total and utter bollocks.  Some people can make their mouths say just about anything!




Judging from what I found wrapped, thank God it actually was my birthday, otherwise I probably might've  only been qualified to receive a wee lump of empty tin foil from under the tree!


And whilst we're on that subject, what is it with these cheapskates who think it's all right to scrawl "Happy Birthday" in my Christmas card? (No, it's okay, don't apologise, I'm over it now. Even though I do still know who each and every one you miserable sods are.)


Mind, if I thought I'd had it bad before, I soon reassessed once my own little brood happened by.  Up until then, at least I could count on waking up to a cuppa' tea in bed.  Having birthed four of our little darlings within the space of six years, can you imagine the Christmas/birthday mornings I spent when they were younger?

The cavalry charge started around 5am, and forget the "Happy Birthday's", I counted myself lucky to so much as escape for the luxury of a pee, before the morning ran through.
 
Every spare minute was turned over to slavishly consoling the kids, whilst loudly yelling at hubby to get a swift move on constructing that stupid pirate ship, why can't he?  (Still having a dolls house, a monster garage set, and a full model kitchen in the queue to build, who needs a perfectionist?  It's not as though they wouldn't all be bust by Boxing day anyway, is it?)  

And what the hell is wrong with all these toy manufacturers, nowadays?  Back in my time, when you bought a dolls house, you bought it expecting the picture on front to match up with the contents inside of that self-same bloomin' box.  When you trustingly carted it home, you never expected some twenty-billion miniature bricks, a squeezee tube of glue, and a warning not to inhale until New Years Day, to spill out on to your lap, did you?

Well, not any more.

Nowadays, parenting classes should include a degree in construction, coupled with an option to take the, "How to get your money back from those no-good, thieving b*****d's who first saw you and your kids coming from a whole several miles down the road" course.  I can't be the only one who doesn't read Chinese. 




Now, just when the cherubs have grown big enough to turn their demands away from the more demanding, time-consuming of toys, to the more bankrupting and materialistic kind of gift, we find we have moved across to join my lil sis' and her family, over here on Craggy Island. 

Woo-hoo, now we can have a PROPER FAMILY Christmas, all sitting together to pull a cracker over the communal turkey! Bliss, eh? Well, it would be if my lot weren't such utter carnivores, and my sister and her brood weren't all committed vegetarians.



Seeing as how my little sis' can't cook to save her life, I opt to host this jolly event, but since my lot steadfastly refuse to give up their roasted seasonal carcass, not for anyone - it involves us seated around two separate tables, and with two very different and individual menus a-piece. 

It's sooooooooo hard to be a birthday girl whilst splattered in gravy, and with twenty pans all a-juggling.


What? Celebrate it on another day? Are you nuts?  Don't be ridiculous, I love playing the martyr, besides, it wouldn't be my BIRTHDAY then, would it?


But we have reached a small, little compromise here. We all sit down to eat our traditional festive meal on the eve of Christmas now, it's far less fuss all round and everyone seems to be happy. 

You see, it's a seriously bloomin' hard job being a Diva, I simply thank goodness my family appear to appreciate it.



(Wide beam to camera, slow curtsy, and quick exit.)