WELL, that’s that. All the lights and glitter are gone and we’re as miserable as the folk who complain about the Christmas fairs. We’ve gone back to our desks, wished a Happy New Year to all, had a moan about the BBC Hogmanay show and put the decorations in the loft. We’ve answered the same questions over and over.
Christmas was good, New Year was quiet and yes, we had a lovely time.
Naturally, I took the tree and the decorations down. It seems to be my job. And naturally, I boxed everything up and waited for Estates Management to put them into storage. And naturally, I looked up to find an overlooked, light-up, colour-changing Christmas bauble on the stairs.
There are still boxes of biscuits. Why do we need entire boxes of biscuits at Yuletide? They’re sitting in the cupboard like the ammo boxes for a besieged front line fort, a sort of modern Rorke’s Drift. Presumably if we suddenly face a ferociously disciplined Zulu impi rushing our defences from the direction of Great Junction Street, we can tear open the foil and throw chocolate bourbons at them. In the event of a zombie apocalypse, I’d opt for the Jolly Jammie Smiley Faces.
It is time to look forward into a new year and all that. Thus it was deemed time to enter the teen son’s bedroom for what I euphemistically referred to as a “wee tidy-up”. Fortunately mum was staying with us so I had back-up if I got into serious difficulties.
We had been wondering for some time now where the glasses were going. We found them. We also found the missing bowls. There were three of them. I managed to positively identify Doritos, and we’re fairly certain that one was cereal of some kind. We think it might be Weetabix, on account of the fact that it’s turned into a solid mass that could easily support the weight of a sagging bridge – just a thought there, for anyone looking under the Forth Road Bridge in the near future.
The third one remains the sort of mystery that would stump Mulder and Scully. He eats a lot of crisps. We know this because of the wrappers, neatly folded, weirdly pressed, and piled on the shelf like some sort of art installation. We didn’t disturb this. We need it to support our application to Creative Scotland for £15,000 to catalogue all the things we’ve found in a teen boys bedroom for a year.
Blames pond... shaken and stirred
In this new year we face many dangers. We must be vigilant. Do you know where the emergency exits are? Have you thought out your escape plan? Good. Terror lurks everywhere.
What fresh fear is this? Four people fell into the ponds outside the Scottish Parliament last year? Jings, crivvens and help ma’ Boab! Action must be taken. Why are our elected representatives exposing us to this level of threat?
Why, I had no idea this terror lurked in our community. But wait! Look across the road from the parliament! There’s a muckle great hill! In 2014 at least six people had to be rescued from its treacherous slopes.
The solution is simple. Flatten Arthur’s Seat and use it to fill in the ponds.
Alternatively, leave everything as it is and trust people to look after themselves.
EU negotiations have nothing on holiday talks
Naturally, our thoughts turn to the summer and the holidays. As a family, we tend to favour holidays at home. This means we can either complain about how bad the weather was at great length, or go on about how good the weather was at great length.
However, when I say as a family, what I mean is that annually we enter into delicate negotiations to select our eventual destination. These talks are carried out in a democratic manner. I employ the sort of weary air of Angela Merkel, pictured, explaining the EU to David Cameron. Again.
Personally, I yearn for the days of the Soviets when Comrade Khrushchev would swoop down on some satellite nation to have a “frank and open exchange of views”, which invariably meant that you were going to wake up to find Moscow’s tanks on your lawns.
Can’t stand the heat? I’m away
The negotiating positions are thus. The son does not like very hot weather. Neither does the husband. I think that’s because he’s from Yorkshire and they treat sunshine with even more suspicion than the Scots. He squints at it with a look of deep mistrust as if he expects George Osborne to announce a way of taxing it.
The daughter is not keen on hot weather, but can cope.
Now, I like very hot weather. I mean it. Mad dogs and Englishmen could be fried by the roadside, but I’ll be off skipping down to the shops.