To kip or not to kip, that is the question....

Happy New Year tae ye all! I had a great festive season. I restricted my visits to the pub to a couple of hours only on Christmas day - big effing result! Those of you that might read this blog occasionally know that himself likes to spend some time in our 17th century village inn. Personally I can't be arsed much of the time and like to stay at home instead although a Friday night up there for the odd sherry here and there has become a bit of a ritual in this household. Having said that, I truly cannot be arsed drinking through the day and suffering a hideous hangover as I start to sober up around tea time - much better in those situations to drink your way through and wake up in hospital the next day after having your stomach pumped and feeling smugly superb as though you've been on a detox weekend. You also don't give a monkey's as to whether the food turned out okay or not and as such enjoy a completely stress free day where the only memories you have are the ones you care to manufacture out of that jumbled pile of vague flashbacks that haunt you every two minutes or so over the following week.

And so, determined that I would resist the constant moaning of himself that, "the pub had been opened about an hour or so already and that if we didn't get up there soon some cheeky no-mates kind of sad looser type who only visited the pub on Christmas day would have nicked our table by the inglenook open fireplace and we'd have to stand all day", I encouraged him to swan off up there with our good pal Mr P who with his lady wifie and other good pal Mrs P was due to come to dinner with us later in the day anyway. Having waved himself off before slamming the door on his arse to make sure he had cleared off, I continued with my planned ritual to remain at home thus peacefully bathing in ass's milk and contemplating prepping a few bits of nosh here and there so as to cut down on the domestic stuff whilst our guests were here later on. It was a civilised and joyful start to Christmas day as ever I have had. After a leisurely couple of hours, I made my way along the three minute journey between home and inn and entered a pub full of good cheer, high spirits and red nosed drinkers with contented almost sleepy smiles and glassy eyes making their slightly unsteady preparations of winter coat donning and the wrapping of chunkily knitted winter scarves around necks before warily braving the cold in the crisp but sunny day towards home for the Christmas lunches awaiting them.

Working my way through the by now thinning throng of drinkers, I soon located himself and Mr P sitting happily by the inglenook fireplace with contented little Guinness laden bellies, both sporting red Santa like shiny faces engendered from the heat of the fire and the consumption of mucho pinto's of beero. 'Twas a sight to behold - two wee happy bezzie mates filled to the brim with festive cheer and the anticipation that a belting big dinner was awaiting their consumption to round off the day. Soon Mrs P joined us and we each snaffled two small glasses of wine before heading off home to get the dinner on the go.

It was a terribly good natured day with lots of laughter and good will from friends and strangers alike as we made the short journey home. Unfastening zips and poppers and removing coats and hats, a knock on the door meant that more good friends and neighbours joined us for an impromptu drink around our kitchen table. As Robbie Burns is oft' quoted, from his To a Mouse poem "the best laid plans o' mice and men, often go awry". But not in this case for it was the first festive season that Mr and Mrs P were not slaving away managing our local inn as they had done for the previous four years before it was sold onwards to our current new owners; it was the first festive season as happy punters on the right side of the bar and as such, free to enjoy the day as the rest of us had done so for many a year before; it was a delight for us to share the day with them and the inclusion of our other neighbours into the mix was a delightful addition to the merriment and hilarity of the day; it is a happiness that our door is open enough for people to feel comfortable in paying a visit without a formal invitation to do so.

Dinner was grand and we ate too much but not so much that we were unbearably uncomfortable. A top up of the wine glasses and a mutual agreement to have the pudding later on, we left the table and settled down in our hugely comfortable recliner chairs to do nothing more taxing than idle contented chit chat and to watch a bit of telly. The twinkly glow of the white fairy lights of the silver, green and red baubled decorated Christmas tree, the soft shadowy light cast by the various burning candles coupled with relaxing scent of the real pine tree and the essential oils of the candles alongside the open coal fire created an atmosphere so tranquil that you'd be hard pushed to find any better an environment for which to de-stress and unwind. Such was the soporific effect of the food, wine, heat, scents and exhaustion from laughter it wasn't long before Mrs P, who works the hardest and longest of all of us, was gently slumbering with her head slumped back, feet up and a huge enigmatic smile on her face. This is not an unusual occurrence as Mrs P never stops until she stops and then she stops good - a wham bam thud like she has hit a brick wall at full pelt. For this she is forgiven; for this she is loved because it is simply her and the way she is; that she feels so comfortable in our midst is entirely right and proper to us for our home is her home for the short time she is conscious in it.

It wasn't long before I became aware that Mr P too had headed the same way as Mrs P. Given he had been drinking rather earlier in the day than myself and Mrs P he could be forgiven for needing a restorative nap. His chosen position was head slumped forward with his chin resting on his chest, arms resting by his side with his feet tucked in towards his body - he looked rather like he had been shot in a hit and run drive past. Himself and I smiled gently to each other for we like nothing better than our guests to pass out so that there is no squabbling over the remote control and we can get on with the business of watching what we want instead of being polite to them. Err, actually what I mean is that we are delighted that our two great pals, Mr and Mrs P are like family in that if they want a nap, then as with all of us, they just go ahead and no need to worry what others think as there is simply no need.

I sank back further in my super duper recliner and felt enormous contentment as I sipped my red wine and enjoyed the companionable silence broken by the low telly dialogue and the odd snore or two from the unconscious guests. It wasn't long though before a snort to my left indicated to me that himself had also taken a stroll off into the land of nod, no doubt frequenting with Mr and Mrs P in that hinterland of alcohol induced coma. Well, bugger me, Himself's chosen position to nod off in was with his body in full recline, head slumped to one side with his arms flailed outwards, two dogs slumped over him and acting as a further heat generator - and God only knows how he didn't start convulsing with a probable body temperature that would melt steel. It crossed my mind that he reminded me of a fallen murder victim and I was fair tempted to get a piece of chalk and make one of those chalk outlines on the black leather recliner for him to have a look at when he came round later on.

I sat up in my chair a bit and reviewed the scene before me. Feeling jolly merry from the wine I started to laugh and then the more I tried to stop it lest I wake them all, I started to laugh even harder to the point I almost wet myself trying to hold the laughter in. I kept stopping and starting and each time it became harder to keep any kind of control. "Fuck me", I said to myself through the laughter as I bit on my balled fist in an attempt to stem the rising hilarity. "It's like a fucking care home in here". The only thing missing was the smell of boiled cabbage and wee but I imagined that if I sat there any longer I would no doubt be supplying one of those odour's pretty soon if I couldn't control the laughter.

I needn't have worried about waking any of them. They were much too comfortable and content as was I. Y'see Mrs P and I have had a hard time of it over the past few years what with our simultaneous and joint suffering of the menopause. We have narked at each other, avoided each other when we wanted to rip each other's heads off. We've commiserated with each other about our severe symptoms, shared tips on what works and what to do when it suddenly doesn't and so on. We started off as great friends, our husbands are good friends and it works terrifically well. That's the thing about great friendship - it survives changes, trials, challenges and comes back together if it was ever worth a toss in the first place - we've successfully stayed the course and it is a better friendship for it. Now that we have things more under control, we laugh again, tease each other, help each other out and just enjoy the friendship. There is no one more like family or has earned the right to kip in my home after a good meal and a few drinks. God knows, if himself and me worked as hard as she does, we'd have no trouble falling asleep in her company and feeling no ill about it either.

Order was restored an hour or so later and we all retired to bed. They respectfully left around 8am the next morning and let us sleep in. We'd arranged to meet up at their place later that day where she returned the favour and made dinner, plied us with drink and was a terrific host. So there it was then, their first festive season as Joe Public instead of landlords and hopefully, they will remember it as fondly and with affection as we do. We've talked endlessly in the past about the four of us buying a retirement home in a hot country and retiring together. I saw a glimpse of that on Christmas day night, and do you know what? There's worse that can happen than to hole up, decrepit and disabled but with mates you can drop off in front of and have a laugh with when you come round again.

Part 1 - "Procrastination is the thief of time"...........

…….My husband responds as I complain that I have writers block; that it is so bad even Dyno-rod or semtex couldn’t shift it and that I’m going to give up this blogging lark. I’m such a wee gobshite that he can’t believe that I have nothing to say and tells me “to get on with it” before he hurriedly kisses me goodbye and rushes out the door on his way to work. I’ve, tried but damn it, maybe if I leave things for a while something interesting might pop up and I’ll be off again writing like a demon, perpetually re-writing my prose in the search of the ever elusive perfect sentence. But, I can procrastinate for Britain, and would deservedly earn a gold medal for my efforts in the art of displacement activities.

I’ve never been domestically oriented in any way, shape or form and as long as I am alive there will always be a thriving small business empire in the guise of cleaners, gardeners, decorators and window cleaners. I refuse to lie on my death bed wishing I had done more ironing. That said, when there is a deadline looming, a difficult report to write or indeed a blog to compose there is nothing more distracting to me than the sudden need to attack a pile of ironing, to clean the cooker, (a job I completely detest), or to get behind the furniture and vacuum up those dust bunnies that have lain dormant for six months. Any old displacement activity will suffice in the process of avoiding what really needs to be done.

So here I am with an abundance of domestic chores to choose from which you wouldn't expect to have when we gainfully employ a cleaner. How so you might ask? Well in short, my cleaner hasn’t really embraced the concept that she is a cleaner and merely exercises the dust from one room to another on a weekly basis. I’ve tried leaving a duster wrapped around a tin of furniture polish in the hope that she will actually use it to trap dust rather than relocate it. But alas, her frequency in polishing rather than dusting runs to approximately once a month. On the upside, a tin of polish around here can last about two years. Early on in our ‘relationship’ I naively sat her down to discuss the possibility that she might like to consider a schedule of chores that she could undertake on a rota basis. “Perhaps”, I said smiling benignly at her, “if we set out what we would like you to do and in return you can tell us what you are prepared to undertake, we’d all know where we were coming from, domestic wise so to speak”. It was probably around this time that she decided we were a couple of gullible and intellectually challenged eejits who were deluded with ideas above our station. Only the village idiot would be daft enough to interfere in her working practices – for what they were. I had no doubt she would lose no time in tossing our names into a hat as ideal for the position of village idiot should the current incumbent relinquish his post. So what was the outcome of our little chat? She dutifully came every Wednesday, followed the same routine and left four hours later. I even paid her holiday money for the days she took as leave such was my need to hang onto her. It was clearly a sellers market and an inconsistent cleaner was better than none, I had convinced myself.

On the surface the house looked clean and tidy but on closer inspection there were tell tale signs that not all was as it seemed. The dust bunnies and cobwebs were all too apparent on the cat’s head as he emerged from his foray along the back of the couch. It was a trick he somehow perfected when guests were in residence. People say that animals have a sense of humour – this wee guy was a riot. I was ashamed to open kitchen cupboards as their contents would surely have given the Environmental Agency and their team of microbiologists cause to condemn us for harbouring plague inducing growths. It was months before we realised that anything that got in the way of vacuuming the bedroom carpet was duly flipped underneath the bed by her very deft footwork. It was a veritable treasure trove of missing shoes, a tie, odd socks, a pair of knickers, a wire coat hanger and a mug with a penicillin culture thriving beautifully in it - and everything covered in a thick layer of asthma inducing dust.

We muddled along year after year. We’d frantically run around tidying up the evening before she was due. She’d arrive the next morning and move the dust around, have two tea breaks and snaffle half a packet of bourbons before having it away on her toes with her financial recompense. The arrangement worked, after a fashion. We could live with it, we told ourselves. After all, she kept the place ticking over, we agreed. Once a month I’d do under the beds and every six months I’d spend a weekend cleaning out kitchen cupboards and running a wet cloth around the skirting boards for a laugh - not. I'd spend my lost weekend cursing her and her tardiness and my inability to redress the imbalance. Then things changed.

On a Wednesday she arrived, took off her coat and hung it in the hall cupboard. I heard the familiar click of the kettle as she popped it on for her first tea break of the day. I’d forgotten it was Wednesday and that she would be here. I was surprised that I had heard her at all for I was sobbing so very hard that it was almost impossible to breath. I was in shock and deeply upset and I tried hard to rally myself, to stop crying, lest she should hear me. I found that I couldn’t stop; that my heart was so shattered and in pain that I would probably never stop crying, ever. I sobbed behind my bedroom door; she busied herself shuffling dust particles around. In time I heard a gentle rap on my door. Without waiting for a reply, she entered and walked towards the bedside cabinet. Making a space between the mountains of soggy tissues, she set down a cup of tea, before turning to look at my hugely swollen red eyes and blotchy face.

“He’s left me”, I managed by way of an explanation. “I know dear” she replied, by way of acknowledging it. She sat down on the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around me. Her kindness overwhelmed me and I convulsed and continued to sob even harder than I thought possible, because somehow saying it out loud, made it that little bit more real. She stayed with me until my tears dried; she made me wash my face and brush my hair and swap my damp pyjamas for jogging pants and top. She left with my promise that I would get out of bed every morning and do the same. She came back every day for a week to make sure I did.

I found kindness and sympathy and help that day. A lifeline thrown from the most unlikely of sources and from someone I didn’t know was a friend until I really needed her.