Monday 7 December
Have been reading a really good set of Bible notes and meditations for Advent. Decided to pass on the benefit of my increased wisdom and deepened spiritual insight to Kevin.
‘If there’s anything you’d like to know, just ask,’ I said.
‘About what?’
‘About Advent, the Christmas story, anything like that.’
‘I’ve got one question, about the conception and birth.’
‘Fire away,’ I urged, Bible study notes and notebook in hand. Finally, Kevin was taking a serious interest in spiritual matters, and I felt secretly proud to be there like a sort of sacred tourist information officer, pointing him in the right direction.
‘Is it true,’ he said, ‘that the “Virgin Birth” is Richard Branson’s company’s attempt to take over the country’s maternity services?’
I’m convinced he is spiritually degenerate.
Tuesday 8 December
Must get the Christmas shopping done this weekend. The temperature has been 20°C all week. It doesn’t feel very festive yet. Never mind, it’s the office Christmas party tomorrow. Nothing like a bit of drunken carousing to get one in the mood. (The rest of the office, that is, will be carousing drunkenly, not me!) We’re apparently going to a karaoke night at a new bar in the West End called Floppy’s. It’s especially for computer operators, so Declan insisted.
Wednesday 9 December
Midnight.
Why am I writing this, no less coherently than normal, after a night at a party? Well, a few days ago, Declan suggested that one person should be randomly chosen to drive everyone home from the party, so that we wouldn’t have the bother of finding cabs or catching trains. Everyone agreed this was an excellent suggestion. We put our names in a hat and my name was picked out as the driver. As I hardly ever drink anyway, I agreed and took my car to work. It cost me half a week’s wages to park, but everyone chipped in and at 6.30 we walked arm in arm, tinsel in our hair, feeling very festive, down the street to Floppy’s.
Most of the people in Floppy’s didn’t look much like computer operators, and a lot of them seemed to be wearing leather clothes with holes and studs in very strange places. I thought that karaoke had gone out with red braces and ponytails, but it still seemed remarkably popular here, with strange combinations of men and women and men and men serenading and crooning to songs ranging from ‘We’ll Meet Again’ to ‘Relax’ and ‘The Macarena’.
As the evening wore on and my colleagues became merrier and merrier, I realized that it’s virtually impossible to appreciate karaoke fully, either as a participant or an observer, when you’re stone-cold sober. After Declan had performed a worryingly accurate impression of Jimmy Summerville singing ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’, and two women from accounts had sung ‘I Will Survive’ with such venom that every man in the room felt he should apologize personally for having been born male, it was my turn. The next song was to be a Madonna number. I calculated that, even if I wasn’t drunk enough to think I sounded like Madonna, perhaps they were drunk enough to think I did.
I was waiting for them to choose ‘Like a Virgin’ or ‘Papa Don’t Preach’—something I could interpret as attacking my religious beliefs so I could get out of singing by flouncing off in a huff of righteous indignation. Instead, they chose the lovely ‘The Power of Goodbye’. Even I had to admit I didn’t do too badly, and revelled in the applause and cheers. I only discovered the reason for the enthusiastic acclamation when I returned to my seat.
‘Theo, you were great, you really grabbed their attention!’ Declan’s face glowed.
‘Yes, I did do rather well. I think they liked my voice.’
‘Either that,’ Declan whispered, ‘or the fact that you have the back of your skirt tucked into your knickers.’
The evening wore on. My colleagues got more and more drunk and I got more and more tired. Just before 11, I pointed out that we all had work in the morning and wasn’t it time we thought about leaving. This comment was greeted with raspberries and jeers. They wanted to stay until the bar closed at 2 a.m. and ordered another round of drinks. When Declan let slip that everyone had written my name on the pieces of paper in the hat, I left under cover of being terribly affronted, and drove home alone.
Thursday 10 December
I was the first to arrive in the office this morning, so I sat and wrapped up some lucky dip prizes for the Fair. Some of the accounts department turned up and sat in their office very quietly with the door closed. Declan eventually appeared at about 11, wearing sunglasses and looking distinctly green in the face. He wasn’t wearing one of his usual immaculate pinstripe suits, but a lumberjack shirt and corduroy jeans which seemed to be three sizes too big. He said he’d inexplicably been taken ill on the way home, gone back to a friend’s house and had to borrow the friend’s clothes, as his own were at the laundry.
‘Oh,’ I said, staring at him. ‘I thought you might have missed the last train or forgotten where you lived or something, and had to sleep in the park. Perhaps your suit got all crumpled and covered with pigeon droppings and you had to buy some clothes from a charity shop?’
The leaves in his hair and the Oxfam carrier bags were a bit of a giveaway.
‘What’s it worth to keep Katherine in the dark?’ I added.
He winced at the thought. His girlfriend was notorious for keeping him firmly in his place.
I was really enjoying the opportunity for revenge. Part of me thought I should exercise Christian compassion on this suffering human being, but then I remembered the many tricks he had played on me and decided the punishment was just and deserved. I bought the largest, greasiest, fried onion and bacon sandwich imaginable from the canteen and sat at Declan’s desk to discuss some files with him.
‘Oh Theo, have a heart,’ he groaned, gesturing limply at the sandwich, which had started to drip brown sauce onto his desk.
‘What? What have I done?’ I asked innocently through a mouthful of bacon and onions, as the grease dribbled down my chin. ‘Do you want a bite?’ I waved the sandwich at him.
He didn’t reply as he lurched out of the office and down the corridor.
Friday 11 December
When Kevin returned from work, I announced that in the light of Wednesday’s singing success, I thought my ministry might be of a musical nature. He looked at me as if I had grown an extra head.
‘Well, there’s no way I’m hanging around to be David Beckham to your Posh Spice!’ he snorted.
Chance would be a fine thing.
Saturday 12 December
When I arrived at St Norbert’s at 8.30 this morning to unlock the hall, I was surprised to find an old gentleman wearing an overcoat and a tweed cap and holding a shopping bag waiting outside.
‘Can I help you?’ I enquired.
‘I ’eard there was some kind of sale on today.’
‘That’s right, a Christmas Fair. But it doesn’t start until 2 o’clock. You’re rather early.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ll wait.’
Inside, I started setting up trestle tables and putting up bunting. Before long, other St Norbert’s regulars started to arrive and soon the hall was filled with stalls. Doris Johnson had agreed to run the second-hand toy stall, Mrs Epstein to oversee the white elephant stall, while Charity brought home-baked cakes and puddings to sell. Nigel Hubble led in the choir, who looked as if they had escaped from a Dickens novel, and Jeremiah stood at the door ready to take the admission fee and hand out leaflets with the cheery seasonal message ‘REPENT OR PERISH’.
One of the last stalls to arrive was the Santa’s Grotto from the village school. Unfortunately, it was so large that we could only manoeuvre it through the doors with difficulty, and part of the sign and a couple of elves snapped off. When we had finally erected it, Mr Wilberforce pointed out that it no longer said ‘Santa’s Grotto’, but ‘Santa’s Grot’. Nigel was in favour of keeping it like that, as he felt it rath
er neatly summed up the usual quality of gifts his children brought home. Digger was relieved to see that the costume consisted of a red suit and long white beard, not horns and a tail. He hurried off to change so that he could participate in his favourite activity—meeting people, especially children, from the village.
At 2 p.m. the doors opened, and it seemed that the whole world flooded in. Out of a village of approximately 3,500 inhabitants, no more than a handful seemed to have stayed at home. I saw the elderly man I’d spoken to outside in the morning. He’d obviously been waiting all that time. Apart from him, however, I barely spoke to anyone all afternoon. I hardly had the chance to draw breath for over two hours. Then, at 4.30, as suddenly as it had started, the tide of people dried up. There was hardly anything left. We cleared up the rubbish and debris and put away the tables. Then we sat down, had a cup of tea and counted the money. Digger removed his red costume and beard.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that this afternoon’s effort has raised the grand total of…’ He performed a little fanfare. My heart beat faster. What if we’d made a loss? ‘…one thousand seven hundred and fifty-two pounds, thirty-seven pence!’ There were cheers, applause and cries of ‘Praise the Lord!’
Sunday 13 December
Carol service tonight. Kevin couldn’t come. Had an emergency plumbing job, he said. The hot tap in the Gents at the Red Lion wouldn’t work. I said I couldn’t see how that was an emergency, but he mumbled something about ‘Health and Safety regulations’ and left.
The children looked very sweet performing the nativity tableau. I think the director got a bit ambitious this year, though. I could have told them that using a real donkey would be a mistake. They’ll never get rid of the stain. Mrs Walpole in an old grey blanket may not look as authentic, but at least she’s continent.
Tuesday 15 December
Mum rang tonight in the middle of an exciting bit of EastEnders. I stood in the hallway trying to watch the TV and talk to her at the same time. I found that if I stretched the cord as far as it would reach and closed one eye, I could peer through the crack in the lounge door.
‘What are you doing for Christmas this year?’ she asked.
‘Dunno, when is it?’ I asked absently, while in the lounge someone from the pub looked menacingly at somebody else—I couldn’t quite make out who.
‘It’s on 25 December, same as usual,’ came her puzzled reply.
Thursday 17 December
Intended to go Christmas shopping after work today, but a sudden filing rush meant that I had to work late instead. Would have been finished earlier but for Declan, who sent me down to the supplies section. He’d been installing a new printer on my desk and there wasn’t enough space.
‘Can you go down and ask them for a long stand?’ he said.
‘Sure, how long should it be?’
‘Oh, as long as possible.’
After I’d been standing in supplies for the best part of half an hour, with people appearing, grinning at me and disappearing again, I ventured to ask, ‘I came down here for a long stand. That was ages ago. Can I have it now, please? I can’t wait all day.’
‘Yes, of course,’ replied the spotty-faced young store-man, and he disappeared to the sound of muffled guffaws.
It was another 10 minutes before I realized that I’d been had. I went back to the office to tell Declan how much I’d enjoyed my ‘long stand’ in the supplies section—and to beat him to death with the nearest blunt object.
‘Ah Theo,’ he chortled, ‘did no one ever tell you that patience is a virtue?’
Friday 18 December
We’re spending Christmas Eve with Kevin’s Mum and having lunch on Christmas Day with my family. Now that Mum’s in the catering business, I hope it means a change from turkey moussaka.
Mum phoned to try to talk to me sensibly about Christmas. Dad has put his foot down firmly about Mum’s idea of inviting Georgie’s family round to use the occasion as a trial run for her new range of seasonal dishes, including the perennial turkey moussaka, but with extras such as Greek-style Brussels sprouts (cooked in olive oil with tomatoes and garlic) and followed by something she’s calling ‘Christmas Pudding Baklava’. The battle continues. I can hardly wait for Christmas Day.
Saturday 19 December
Kevin at football. The shops will be very busy this afternoon, so I’ll take a day off next week to get it all done. Spent the rest of the day putting up Christmas decorations in the flat. Mum and Dad gave me a box of their old decorations when I moved in. The box contained things that Ariadne, Ag and I had made years ago at school. There were three Wise Men made out of papier-mâché and washing-up liquid bottles (Ag), a candle covered in glitter and made from the inside of an old toilet roll (Ariadne), and a nativity scene made from modelling clay with purple sheep (me).
I sat down and looked at the twinkling fairy lights on the balding imitation pine. The slightly torn decorations sagged from my ceiling and the whole room had a faded, tawdry feel, like an elderly lady wearing the ‘best dress’ she bought 40 years ago for an evening out.
Why isn’t Christmas the same as it was when we were children?
Sunday 20 December
Apparently, Jeremiah Wedgwood gave a very powerful sermon today about how the commercialism of the modern Christmas had robbed the sacred celebration of its true meaning. I missed it, unfortunately. Kevin and I had gone shopping.
Monday 21 December
Got a Christmas card from Ag. He’s in Singapore. He said he may have a surprise for us, and did we all own hats. Very mysterious.
Wednesday 23 December
Finished buying the last few presents today. Well, it’s a day earlier than last year. I was battling my way up the high street when I decided to drop into the Christian bookshop for some last-minute ideas. Apparently, these days it’s not good enough just to have a Bible. There on the shelves were Bibles for Babies, Toddlers’ Bibles, Teen Bibles, Women’s Bibles and Grandparents’ Bibles. It was then that I found the ideal present for Kevin—the Bible for Blokes.
It included sections on woodworking and fishing, and had a ‘Who’s Who of Tyrannical Old Testament Warlords’. Disappointingly, it said nothing at all about football. Nevertheless, I bought it and continued my onslaught on the shopping centre. I was dismayed to find that a number of the shops had already taken down their Christmas decorations and had started their January sales! Couldn’t they have waited just a few more days?
Thursday 24 December
Kevin picked me up from work in the van and took me to his Mum’s house for supper. It was a lovely spread—not the slightest hint of anything Greek. Maybe a 25-pound turkey was a bit extravagant for three, however.
‘Oh, never mind,’ she beamed, ‘there’s a couple of old people in the street who’ll be on their own tomorrow. I’ll invite them in to help me finish it off.’
After supper I took Kevin’s Mum to the midnight Communion service at St Norbert’s. As we sat and listened to the familiar words and carols, I noticed a butterfly darting and skimming around the building. It must have been among the foliage brought in to decorate the church, and the warmth from the heaters and the candles must have woken it prematurely. It was like a special Christmas present, an unexpected glimpse of summer in the heart of winter.
Friday 25 December
CHRISTMAS DAY
Went to church before opening my presents—a sure sign that I’m growing up and maturing spiritually.
St Norbert’s was unusually packed, even for Christmas Day. I scanned the faces and felt a surge of what I can only describe as ‘goodwill’ towards the people gathered in this building: St Norbert’s regulars and their friends and families, folks from the village. I considered it a privilege to call them my friends. I felt like hugging everyone. I nearly hugged Jeremiah Wedgwood, but remembered just in time that, considering he disapproves of any form of physical contact, it would not have been the kindest of gestures.
‘Good morning
, Jeremiah, merry Christmas,’ I said, and shook his hand. ‘Lots of people here today.’
‘Aahh,’ he sighed, his watery eyes filling like cisterns. ‘Every year, more and more unbelievers enter God’s house on this sacred day, bringing their pagan attitudes and humanist philosophies. Christmas to them is just one long orgy…’ Bubbles of spittle started to appear at the corners of his mouth. ‘An orgy of gluttony, alcohol abuse, licentious behaviour and debauchery!’
I’ve obviously been going to the wrong parties.
‘But,’ I ventured, ‘isn’t it good that they come to church, even if it is only on Christmas Day? It must mean something.’
‘Yes, but what? What does it mean?’ said Jeremiah mysteriously, tapping the side of his nose.
I continued to push my way up the aisle. Most pews were packed to overflowing. I spotted a vacant seat in the pew behind a huddle of Hubbles.
‘Good morning! Merry Christmas!’ I chimed. All the Hubble heads swivelled simultaneously, the children’s hamster faces staring up at me impassively. ‘Did Father Christmas bring you lots of nice presents?’ I beamed impishly at seven-year-old twins Priscilla and Aquila.
‘Father Christmas is merely a marketing strategy to entice parents to spend more money than they have available and detracts from the true reciprocation between giver and receiver,’ chirped Aquila.
‘And it maketh parenth tell lieth to their children,’ lisped Priscilla. ‘I thertainly don’t want an old man creeping into my bedroom at night. I don’t care how many Barbie dollth and chocolate thnowmen he bringth.’
‘We just give a small gift to one other member of the family. Naphtali bought me a beautiful stapler. Then we give an extra donation to charity. To help those less fortunate,’ contributed Zilpah.
A stapler for Christmas? Could there be anyone less fortunate? My overflowing bonhomie was starting to evaporate.
‘Have you seen any good programmes on television?’ I asked, fumbling for a nonconfrontational topic of conversation. ‘I always enjoy the one about the boy and the snowman and the Christmas specials.’
Theodora's Diary Page 10
