Christmas is an odd time for my dear old dad. I guess because it combines the two things he loves and loathes the most; beer and family.
That’s not to say that he hates our family. I think he loves us all in his own peculiar way. It’s more that he can’t stand a group of us arriving en mass, singing bawdy Christmas songs, giggling over our presents, or trying to coax him into a round of Charades (he does Gone with the Wind every bloody year and still grumbles about it).
This year was particularly interesting, as his grandson was there. The grandson in question had recently leapt out of the closet, and although my Dad had accepted this, he couldn’t quite understand it.
“Such a lovely looking boy…” He said at first, with such sadness. “He could have had any girl..”
Then a few more drinks entered his bloodstream and his tongue became a little looser.
“I just don’t understand homosexuals.” He said finally. “I mean, if it’s all about the bums. At the end of the day, nothing beats a girl’s bottom…”
I honestly don’t know what is worse – having a father who fails to understand basic sexual compulsions, or having a father discussing his own penchant for female arses – all whilst we’re sitting cracking nuts and talking about the state of the country.
Luckily his Grandson burst into laughter, kissed him on the head and told him he was a “’legend”
I guess that’s one word for him….
Why do I do it to myself? I’m sure there is a part of my brain that is designed to come up with ideas to humiliate and horrify me, probably while I’m blissfully dribbling in my sleep.
The day didn’t start too well…
I have been getting used to being back to work which in itself is a headf**k. OK, it’s only 3 days but nevertheless I am finding myself in a permanent state of confused and dazed semi-consciousness, rather like a stoned OAP (if you can imagine such a thing) I find myself in important meetings suddenly panicking about the lack of nappies at home, or whether my daughter has been eating enough fruit this week. I nearly found myself discussing chickenpox with a senior director who (by all accounts) detests children.
I think my credibility is slipping somewhat.
So it didn’t help that I managed to crunch my foot against the bed post whilst getting ready this morning. I was reduced to a limping wreck, hobbling around the house, trying to squeeze my purple foot into my patent high heels – it wasn’t a nice look.
But at least I was wearing my pretty dress. My floral tea dress. The sun was shining and I could put that on and feel happy, even if my foot looked like a squashed plum.
And it was going so well. I actually made it through the day without talking about Iggle Piggle or nit treatments.
That was until a lovely gust of wind appeared from nowhere and blew up my skirt as I was walking from one office to another. Behind me were a group of six senior managers.
And of all them saw my lovely granny knickers that I had carelessly thrown on that morning.
As I mentioned earlier I think my credibility (what I had of it) is slipping…..
Marilyn Monroe, a photo by DRS 3 on Flickr.