Mistletoe And Whine

I’m in the bathroom, scraping through foam to bristle and thinking not for the first time how unflattering those shaving lights can be. I’ve heard countless old people being forced by family or finance to move from their homes, mutter: ‘Don’t get old son.’ It’s one of the few times I’m still given the younger man suffix nowadays.

Of course, as I’ve remarked before, the old scroats’ sage advice doesn’t leave too many palatable alternatives, and for years I’ve just discounted the oft-repeated phrase as the mutterings of a senile old fool who needs to be humoured, at least until they’ve signed the sole agency contract. But then life has a sadistic way of creeping up on you when you’re otherwise engaged.

‘Who is in there with you?’ Calls my wife through the door, as I wipe the soap from my face and check for nicks. Nothing worse than blood on the collar to ruin a salesman’s chances of closing the business, or having to sport little lumps of ruby-tinged toilet paper coagulating on your face, as trainee F has a habit of doing.

‘What are you talking about?’ I call back moodily, as I contemplate another day listening to the clock ticking, while I chase the shed facial hair around the basin with my hand.
‘No, what are you talking about?’ She replies. ‘You’re muttering to yourself again.’

‘No I’m not.’ I respond as the black and white mixture bubbles in the drain and I look forward to unscrewing the u-bend again. Extricating several years of discarded sludge surely an appropriate metaphor for my life going down the plughole.

‘You’ve been doing it for months now.’ Chides my wife as I finally exit the bathroom and scan the wardrobe with scant enthusiasm for a suitable tie to match my shirt. Now that’s another cruel irony a capricious nature inflicts upon those that stay the course. You become your parents. Of course the faint hope I had as a child that my real biological progenitors’ would swing by and rescue me, once the hospital crib mix-up had been identified, is just a distant wish now.

‘It’s just something writers do.’ I tell her defensively, as I finger an ancient paisley number that still hasn’t come back in fashion, despite the fact we’re in a similar slump to when I bought it.
‘Yes but you’re an estate agent not a writer.’ My wife reminds me abruptly.
‘That’s another reason I mutter.’ I respond truthfully.

‘What you doing for Christmas?’ Asks negotiator S as she leans over my desk in a semi-see-through blouse and places a cup of tea in front of me. And I find myself mumbling again, not really sure what verbiage I’m spouting but battling against saying something inappropriate about pulling crackers.

‘I’m not seeing my kids until the day after Boxing day.’ Announces M morosely as the conversation continues later, in the absence of any punters.
‘What are you doing for Christmas dinner?’ I ask maliciously, visions of M polishing off a whole bird on his own in front of Doctor Who, momentarily cheering me up.

M confirms he’ll be going to his local pub to eat. Now that’s a lonely place when you should be with family.
‘My mum always puts on a show.’ F says without a hint of irony - the trip to hospital from the possible overdose clearly forgotten.

‘I’ve got to go to the fiancée’s parents’ for dinner.’ Reports assistant manager T glumly with a shake of his head, as I wonder if pumping M’s stomach would help kick start his inevitable – and doomed - January diet.

‘Me and my boyfriend will be spending some quality time alone.’ Adds lettings lush B, as I catch a watery glint in M’s eye and briefly wonder about inviting him to our house, until I remember the undersized credit-crunch turkey we’ve ordered.
‘You bought him a present yet?’ Asks S, seemingly innocently. Then it kicks off.

In retrospect I shouldn’t have advised B to hang on to the receipt, some thoughts are best kept to yourself.

P.S.

Thank you to everyone who read this Blog in 2008 particularly those who took time to leave a comment.

Happy Christmas and an increasingly unlikely - prosperous New Year.

May your chosen deity be with you…..