Yesterday Princess 2 and I went Christmas shopping. At least, that was the idea, but somehow, although I guarantee she has been pondering what to buy everyone since August, she didn't manage to actually purchase one single thing. Neither did she have any idea where she wanted to go to look. I know she is searching for the perfect present for everyone. I understand that she has carefully calculated how much she can afford to spend and that her conclusions will not be ungenerous. Unfortunately, the perfect presents she envisages do not match her budget. But there she is not alone. We all want to buy the perfect present, but even with a larger budget it is somehow elusive. Princess 1 is difficult because she has expensive tastes. It is therefore advisable to buy her a very small item with a designer name (Ted is good), than a larger one with a supermarket label. All the Comte wants is a new car (he can't have one). And the English friends and relations are bound to be disappointed because the Euro is worth about the same as monopoly money. Consequently they will probably get one of those little red hotels somewhere obscure like the Old Kent Road.
Now, as Princess 2 surfs the internet for the umpteenth time in search of inspiration, I gaze out of the kitchen window across the damp fields and spot the unlikely figure of Princess 1 with her spade, her rake and her barrow full of poo balls. Just as they promised, the Squarking Princesses have collected the Daisy poo (and the Luna-fat-pony poo) every weekend for the last seven years. This, they tell me repeatedly, is a very tedious job. But they promised and le Comte, quite rightly, insists. As Princesses of Honour, they cannot demur. The only time the chore livens up is in the winter when the poo balls are frozen, clad with tiny spears of ice. When this happens it's fun to instigate poo-ball fights with passers-by. But here in Narnia, these are few and far between; the Chateau slumbers gently and waits for the sunshine to emerge from behind the mountain and release it from its icy curse.
This year, once again, no one is coming to Chateau Coldspot for Christmas and even the Princesses have somehow managed to book themselves flights back to dear old Angleterre. Friends and relations for various reasons, feel obliged to decline our warm invitations:
Le Comte (in jolly telephone manner): 'How about joining us for Christmas this year?...Be delighted to see you...loads of room..no problem...light fires...satelite BBC...roast goose...ho,ho,ho etc.,'
Relation, thinking fast: 'Well, you see I was thinking that I might have to go to Aunt Mabel's this year on account of how I haven't seen her for almost half a century. I really should go over and check up she's still alive, take some of the old Christmas cheer, you know how it is... you don't remember Aunt Mable? No well, you wouldn't of course, you're too young.'
2nd Relation, brightly; 'It's the inlaws, I'm afraid, we did promise this year...Yes I know we went last year, that's when we promised we would go this year too. Hmm, next year? Well, I think something may have already been said...'
Friend, frankly: 'Sorry, but I make it a point never to go anywhere where the bedrooms are colder than my fridge. Ha, ha. I was thinking I might call in sometime in early of July. I'm coming down your way for a week or so. Where am I staying? Ha, ha! didn't think you'd have to ask!'
So it will be just le Comte and I, sitting around the fire alone but for our 7ft tall Norwegian sapin (that's a Christmas tree, btw, not a sex toy), Daisy the donkey, Luna-the-fat-pony, one sheep, three goats, three geese, three chickens, five ducks, two cats and a cockatiel belonging to Princess 2. We are currently rehearsing a little sketch for Christmas afternoon, but the geese and the chickens are very slow with their lines. We may, after all, skip the entertainment and venture out in to the warmer lands beyond our Coldspot to play a round of golf in the southern French sunshine. That is what we came for, after all.
No comments:
Post a Comment