Grateful is Dead
It seems that it is and frankly, I say, good riddance to it.
I say this not because I’m ungrateful. Heaven forbid! I remember a time when even if you’d received the gift in person, and actually said the words “Thank you very much” directly into the face of whoever it was gifting you whatever it was, it still wasn’t enough. No, this person would still be expecting a hand written note on a little specially bought card to be plopping through their letter box within a certain interval. Too long an interval would be almost as bad as no card at all. Don’t even think you’ll get away with a phone call either- it’s a card or nothing- these people need cold hard evidence of gratitude. Mantlepiece dwelling evidence.
Dear Great Auntie Joan(for it is always to elderly aunts and grandmas that you must write these things)
Thanks for the dreadfully ill-fitting scratchy nylon cardigan and monkey piss aftershave that you gave me this Christmas. Despite only being ten and not needing any aftershave as yet, I am sure that I can find some use for it, perhaps as fuel for a Molotov cocktail, should the situation warrant it. These are uncertain times we live in, so I’m sure it will come in handy.
See you the same time next year for the same ritual until you finally peg it,
Your loving grand-nephew twice removed or whatever the hell I am to you; no-one ever really sat me down to explain,
Barry
Thank you letters- a social minefield if ever there was one. You forget to send one to the wrong person and bang, that’s it- you are dead to them. And I’m not just talking post Christmas thank you notes. There are two other situations in life where the thank you note can cause you serious social damage should you not attack it like a military campaign.
These events are: Birth, and Marriage.
Personally when I give a gift that’s it for me. Had a baby? There’s something nice for him/her. The End. Getting married? Thanks for the invite to the wedding, here’s a little something to show I appreciate the invite and to help you set up house (or a better equipped one than the one you’ve both been living in together for years anyway). Do I give a stuff if I get a card? It wouldn’t even cross my mind to be bothered about such a thing. If you’re offering a card, I’ll take it. If you’re not, then nae bother, because I wouldn’t notice.
Thank you card sulks belong in the world of the petty. Yes, send them if you must, I have sent many in my time as well. Meeester and I sat and opened all our wedding presents like one of those British Expeditionary Force meetings where ladies called Penelope in uniform move things about on a big map with long sticks and take orders from men with big curly moustaches called Ginger. Meeester (he was Ginger) did the opening, I (Penelope) did the recording of what it was and who it was from, so that I could then sit for an entire day after our honeymoon and get the blasted cards out to the right people. Heaven forbid you thank the wrong person for the wrong gift. Again, for certain people this faux pas is worse than no card at all.
I have always felt this way about thank you letters and cards. Many people will disagree with my feelings and think me a slatternly ungrateful cow, but I’m not. I’d just rather say thanks in person. And I don’t make my kids write them either. A gift should not engender an obligation.
Another thing strikes me. No-one ever expects a bloke to write a thank you card. Think about it- did you ever see your husband, brother or father sit down and write a letter of thanks. Have you ever received a letter of thanks from an uncle or grandfather? No, you have not. In the same way women are expected to endure the yearly trauma of writing a bazillion Christmas cards to people they never see, they are also expected to take time out of probably the most hectic times in their lives, the month after childbirth, to write thank yous to all the people who have given the baby a gift. I mention this because apparently I once forgot to send one of these. It was nearly twelve years ago when my son was born. For years I could never figure out why this person doesn’t like me. What had I done to offend? Turns out it’s because she gave my then baby a gift and never got a thank you card by return of post. I do not remember this. Apparently twelve years on, she still does.
So where are you in this; foaming at the mouth if seven days go past and no card appears and writing to the Daily Mail about the kids of today, or a Veruca Salt like I apparently am?
Twinageddon
September is always a busy busy month for us in The House of the Flying Martinis. This year it was even busier. It appears that most of my family decided to become or have offspring at this time of year and therefore the whole month must be set aside for celebrating.
Not least of all those celebrations was the fortieth birthday of my husband, the infamous Meeester M along with that of his twin sister, who is not allowed to be called Misssy M because I thought of it first, so will therefore be called Meeester’sTwin. Incidentally, we celebrated Meeester’sTwin’s birthday 20 minutes earlier than Meeester’s.
A big fuss was made.
I have spent the last three weeks collecting, scanning, collaging, cutting, framing, gluing and stealing old photographs of the two birthday bods into various pieces of memorabilia designed to make both of them cry with emotion and/or embarassment. No awkward spotty gawky teenage photo has gone unused. No mullet, perm or shiny wedding suit has been edited out.
Then a quiz was devised pitting the twins against the rest of the family answering questions on their lives and foibles. I called it Twinageddon and and it was so good that TV company Celador who make Who Want to be a Millionaire are rumoured to be interested in optioning it on a five year global contract. How we laughed as we remembered MeeestersTwin’s crush of former Scottish First Minister Donald Dewar after a misunderstanding in a Glasgow coffee shop. How we cried as we remembered Brabbajackal the frozen pet guinea pig their mother was advised to thaw out in the oven by the vet, but forgot to tell the twins about the situation when they came home expecting their tea.
All this twin business actually made me quite envious- how lovely to be a twin. I wish I had a twin, I’d think from time to time as I cut yet another seventies image of two wee kids who don’t look remotely like each other but seemed always to be hanging about together and often had the same anoraks on.
This pair seem to have the best of both worlds, because as nice as it is to be a twin who has shared experiences, birthdays and milestones, being “not from the same egg” as they would repeatedly tell anyone who asked, and of course of different sexes, they wouldn’t have the frankly freaky lookalikey thing going on.
Being an identical twin couldn’t be as good as their situation. Identical twins would be subjected to a lifetime of other people who couldn’t tell you both apart and people would comment on who was the brighter, the better natured, the more dominant, as people tend to do to be able to distinguish between identical twins, not realising how annoying that must be.
Then there’s the whole getting married thing. You meet the man who ends up being your husband, but it turns out that he’s an identical twin. Don’t you feel a bit weird when you meet a second version of him? Don’t you worry, even only deep down in your dark subconscious, that one night, for a laugh, they might swap places just to freak everyone out? I have a friend who is married to an identical twin. I don’t know her well enough yet to ask her that question, but I’m working up to it.
So anyway, that’s what I’ve been doing with my September, making a fuss of my favourite twins and thinking freaky thoughts about identical twins.
Oh, that and getting excited about the genius present I got for my most favourite of husbands: a trip to New York! With me!
Hey, I’m walkin’ here!
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In Cold Blood
Maggie Simpson was a January baby, no doubt about it.
January babies of the Northern Hemisphere are always cold. Particularly cosseted first children like me born in January, who are wrapped like little sausage rolls from the second they push their little nose out past the perineum straight into layers of wool and towelling and anorakage. For the first six months of their lives they are bound Sarchophagus-like in blankets and quilting, topped off with woolly bonnets and then squeezed into a contraption that is a hybrid coat and sleeping bag. Their skin doesn’t see the sun or feel the air til July, a good seven months after having the vernix washed off it.
When I heard that Michael Jackson had nick named his kid Blanket, I thought, “That should have been my name…”
So I’m cold. Yes, yes, we all are, but I am particularly cold because I’m a January baby and no amount of clothing is ever enough to warm me up. I’ve been away recently to Disneyland and Paris where it was colder than the chest freezer of Satan in his Hades home, and this is what I wore from skin outwards:
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A bra (woot woo)
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A thermal strappy vest
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A long sleeved thermal vest
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A long-sleeved t-shirt
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A short sleeved t-shirt ( I only put it on cos it was there)
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A cashmere jumper
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Another cashmere jumper
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Woolly tights (Regulation issue for all Scottish women past October)
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Jeans
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Four cheese baguettes for sneaking into Disneyland strapped to my body (they don’t let you bring food in but their’s is shit and costs £50 per item and you have to speak French to get it from them)
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A leather jacket
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A padded coat
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Hat
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Gloves
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Scarf (wound around torso for warmth)
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Another scarf (for decorative purposes)
Someone actually thought I was one of the Disney characters I was that padded. I let them take my photo and said nothing.
So I’m a cold January baby born 7th January. I won’t be blogging tomorrow as the mid-life
crisis officially begins and apparently that’s quite time consuming…..
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The Sum of All Years
Joan of ArcHere’s a list of thirty things I have done in my thirties to make myself feel wistful yet satisfied:
1. Had a little girl (this one thing has taken up most of my thirties)
2. Reached 10 years of marriage (cue Phil Collins’ Against All Odds)
3. Bought a house (OK, it’s not paid for yet…)
4. Got a dog (notice I didn’t say “trained”)
5. Started an online web log (that’ll be this one).
6. Traveled to Thailand
7. Broadcast on radio (“wah, wah, films, wah, wah, waffle”)
8. Seen the Eiffel Tower ( a piercing shriek echoed throughout the whole of France)
9. Been on an oil rig (or 50) (it’s rubbish!)
10. Travelled to Sri Lanka
11. Traveled to India (not to be repeated)
12. Lectured in a college
13. Been on Finnish TV (sadly not Eurovision)
14. Given a speech at a funeral
15. Lectured in a university
16. Got a literary agent
17. Been on Reporting Scotland (with unwashed hair)
18. Been in the Sunday Mail (sadly my gran wasn’t alive to see it- she’s the only person I know who read the Mail)
19. Become self employed
20. Saw Tom Waits live
21. Flown in a helicopter
22. Been to Paris
23. Been a bridesmaid (the word “maid” is maybe pushing it but I’m not going for “matron”. I’m just not)
24. Been ice-swimming in Finland (and then provided hanging hooks for wet duffel coats)
25. Written a book (well, a half)
26. Walked on frozen sea
27. Seen the Taj Mahal (it’s aaaright, I suppose)
28. Been published
29. Taken someone to court and won (up ye!)
30. Become an auntie (to my three wee ladies)
I’m fairly happy to have squeezed that all in. What do you think I should aim to do in the next ten? Maybe, you’re in your forties and have done something suitably mature that you would recommend for me, or simply want to suggest something completely ridiculous that you think I’d go for. Or maybe you don’t think I’ve done enough so far, and want me to up my game….tell me.
Add your suggestions to my list of things I haven’t managed so far, but should seriously consider doing in the next decade. I’ve started it for you:
1. Raise a people’s army and take over a country
2. ?
3. ?
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Serge Gainsbourg wrecks my gran’s birthday
Last night I was listening to the radio and the presenter posed the question, “Have you ever been in a situation where a completely inappropriate song has come on and completely caused mayhem”. As I was driving, I couldn’t text in, so instead I thought, “One for the Misssives, non?”
It’s my Gran, Jessie’s, eightieth birthday and the family has gathered for a dinner in a big hotel. We’ve booked a private room as we’re a bit of a noisy bunch, and have brought our own CD player and music to provide ambiance. A few CDs are chucked in there and one must have been some kind of “Love Songs” type compilation. We’ve, no doubt, chosen a few CDs that will be a gentle mix that Gran will enjoy; a bit of Johnny Mathis, some Minnie Ripperton and a splash of Take That for the young uns. You know the type of CDs; Marks and Spencer sell them for Mother’s Day. Mum-wise; you can’t go wrong.
Dinner is finished and it is time for the speeches, the presentation of gifts, and the making of Gran cry with emotion, which no eightieth birthday would be complete without. My Uncle gets up to say a few words…. just as Jane Birkin starts to tell Serge Gainsbourg she loves him in the background. Yes, yes she loves him. Oh yes, she does.
Help! Help! There’s a rogue track on the “Woman in Love” CD as-advertised-on-TV, and to be fair, you can’t get them with the Trades Description Act. Jane Birkin is definitely in love, oui, oui, she’s in love alright, and not in an airy fairy “Hey! Hey! My boyfriend’s back” kind of way. If legend is to be believed Serge was in the sound booth right there beside her, manufacturing some ambiance of his own, the dirty French beast.
Uncle sits down after a short round of applause. He’s lucky, he gets away with having the more innocuous part of the song as his backing track- perhaps Serge is still in the main studio smoking a Gauloises at this point and has yet to come up with the genius idea of running into Jane’s vocals booth and tampering with her underwear. “Vocals booth” is not a euphemism, by the way. You filthy beasts. French or otherwise.
Very quickly gifts are being offered up to my gran and she is starting to reply to the best wishes when Jane Birkin gets a little bit carried away about how much she loves Serge. Serge is now adjusting the vocals in a way that no modern music software can equal.
A five way glance, that says on the faces of each of us that we are about to lose it, ricochets between me, my brother, then onto my sister and then finally rests on the two brothers-in-law who are already in stitches at the far end of the table.
“Well, I am so lucky to have such a lovely family,” trills Gran
“Ooooh, uuggghhh, oui, oui je t’aime, oui je t’aime..uuggghh (pant pant)”
“And look at all these lovely gifts,” she beams.
“Oui! Oui! Je t’aime! Ugh, Ugh ! Oui!”
“This has been a wonderful day”
“(Intense heavy breathing, intense heavy breathing)Ugh! (Intense heavy breathing)”
“Thank you all so much”
By this time everyone in the room has cottoned onto the fact that Jane is in danger of upstaging the guest of honour. Except Gran.
Should we change the CD? Do you think someone should pull the plug?
Non! Moi non plus!
(For your entertainment, now listen to Serge and Jane sing “Je t’aime, moi non plus” and imagine a eighty year old woman trying to thank her family in the last minute of the song over the top).
Meanwhile over on Spontaneous Production,
I’m revewing, M Night Shamalayan’s The Happening.
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