The Christmas wind up

In its usual style, Christmas sneaked up and ambushed us.

 

For the previous three weeks, we entertained noble notions of getting the Christmas shopping done early. Although we technically ’shopped’ on three occasions – ie trudged sulkily around a mall – up to yesterday we had failed dismally to actually purchase anything. Thankfully, we now have presents for all our friends and Husband organized a production line last night for the gift wrapping thereof.

 

Andrew wanted to get Danny a set of walkie-talkies but experienced difficulties in the supply thereof. Personally, I can’t understand what Daniel would want to do with a pair of walkie talkies. I asked Andrew about it:-

 

“Doesn’t he have a mobile phone?”

 

“Yes, but a walkie talkie has different applications.”

 

“Who d’you think he’s going to be chatting to on his walkie talkie?”

 

“Hmm. Not sure. I don’t know. But! - he could go down to the beach and pick out a hot girl and slip the walkie talkie into her beach bag!”

 

“Right. But wouldn’t he have to stay within 500 metres of Hot Girl for the walkie talkie to work?”

 

“Ah, yes.”

 

“So why doesn’t he just STALK her?”

 

“Ok, maybe that’s not the most practical of applications.”

 

In the end he bought Danny a remote controlled helicopter. Just what every man needs.

 

Yesterday we threw a Chrismas Eve do and told our guests to arrive any time from 3pm. Four weeks ago, this seemed like a simply fantabulous idea – I mean what else would we be up to on Christmas Eve? I now realize I simply don’t have that enough guff in me for 8+ hours of random sociability and Andrew certainly doesn’t.

 

However, I contrived a Grand Plan, the cornerstone of which was the mulled wine. I figured if I threw enough of it around, everyone would be semi- to totally comatose by 6pm and wouldn’t notice the soggy Brussels sprouts or the turkey which was more in the style of chicken. It worked a treat, given that our crappy gas oven turned itself off halfway through the evening – nobody seemed to notice the fact that dinner was served at 10pm.

 

After the Great Minced Pie Wars of 2004 which almost resulted in acrimonious divorce (I don’t know about Andrew, but I actually consulted a lawyer), we reached an amicable agreement to procure whatever format of minced pie(s) were available in Spinneys. Yesterday morning I finished spackling the Christmas cake with almond paste, formally approved the mulled wine recipe and chose the optimal stuffing for the churckey’s nether regions.

 

[Just an aside – three weeks ago, I came across an Irish cookbook in the Second Hand Bookshop in Satwa. It's the second edition of 'The Ballymaloe Cookbook', published in 1983. I looked forward to some old-fashioned cooking: serving Andrew Mussels Stuffed With Pig Trotters, Roast Rabbit with Tripe and making my own vegetable bouillon.

 

Yesterday I consulted my cookbook for what would no doubt be a tastebud exploding recipe for stuffing which would result in a three day sensory high. I turned eagerly to the recipe for 'Roast Chicken'.

 

I suspect I may have missed class 101 in my culinary education. Here is what the recipe states:

 

Prepare a fresh-herb buttery stuffing. Wash and dry the cavity of the bird, then season and half fill with stuffing. Roast in a good quality dripping. Serve with creamy bread sauce.

 

I reverted to Paxo' Sage and Onion Stuffing – comes in a bag. Add water.]

 

Andrew was designated Master of the Fowl. For a man into his huntin’ shootin’ and fishin’, he was surprisingly squeamish when it came to stuffing the chickens. He was heard to say: ‘It goes WHERE?’ and then he pulled faces and squealed like a girl.

 

This morning we all woke up with headaches, but the excitement of opening Christmas presents chased most of it away (that and Panadol/Brufen depending on the class of drug preferred). Andrew got a pair of cufflinks in the form of spirit levels, so he can demonstrate to clients that he’s on the level ha ha ha. David got an 8Gb multi media player and is inexplicably very excited about it. I got a mountain bike - I’ve actually had it for a few days now and cycle around the neighbourhood. I felt like I was eight years old again just without the training wheels. I got some bicycle accessories this morning, including the most irritating bell in the world (the hangovers might have influenced that judgement).

 

I’m going to go and try it out on the neighbours.

 

Have a great Christmas!

Bristle rating: low

In an effort to generate more festive spirit, Husband and I always buy a real Christmas tree which usually prevails until April against Andrew’s protestations. Last week, Andrew and I went to Spinneys to purchase a tree in a high state of excitement (to be entirely honest, Andrew was in more of a high state of weary resignation.)

 

We got home and while I brewed up some mulled wine to lubricate the occasion, Andrew unsheathed the tree. Well, we could have draped some tinsel around an upended brush for better effect – there would certainly have been more bristles on it.

 

The emotion quotient was now registered at a medium state of excitement, yet still sufficient to press on with decorating the tree.

 

An hour later, I switched on the fairy lights. Raff and Carole made encouraging comments like: “It’s very minimalist. I hear that’s all the rage for Christmas trees this year,” and “Well at least there will be less pine needles to sweep up,” and “Perhaps it will look better after another mulled wine. Or several.”

 

Andrew said very little, but he was probably feeling guilty about the fact that he had chosen the tree. He tried to make out later that he had warned me, but I have no recollection of his hissing ‘Get down!’ then pushing me to the floor and shielding me with his body.

 

The following day in the sobering morning light, I sat on our sofa and glared at our tree. Without benefit of mood lighting and mulled wine, it looked scrawny and frankly geriatric. A tree not so much in the twilight of its years as the darkest, deepest night.

 

“I’m very unhappy with that tree,” I announced.

 

“Mm-hmm,” said Andrew.

 

“Very unhappy.”

 

“‘S fine,” mumbled Andrew.

 

“I think it’s outrageous that Spinneys can charge US$ 150 for a crappy yoke like that,” I persisted. “I’m really not happy. On a scale of 1 to 10, I’m not pleased at all, AT ALL.”

 

Andrew finally realized he was not about to get to read his motorcycle magazine in peace. (The final giveaway was my prodding him with my toe.)

 

“Look Niamhie, we BOUGHT it-”

 

“It was covered with plastic at the time-”

 

“Well we can’t take it back-”

 

“Hey! That’s a great idea! We’ll demand a refund. After all, Spinneys sold us faulty goods-”

 

“It’s a TREE! What’s faulty about it?”

 

“It doesn’t have any branches, so technically it’s not a tree as much as a very large twig.”

 

“Niamhie, they won’t take it back-”

 

“They will if we turn up with it and wave it threateningly at them.”

 

Andrew dredged up a great sigh from the bottom of his diaphragm.

 

“Ok look. If you really REALLY don’t like it, we’ll take it back.”

 

I would like to invite you to reread the sentence above.

 

I bet you’re thinking, ‘Gosh, what a lovely man. Look how far he’s willing to go to keep his wife happy. WHAT A TREASURE.’

 

You would not be mistaken on the treasure bit; however I’m sorry to say the rest is a lapse of judgment. Don’t feel bad about it; he has everyone fooled. Andrew is a master of reverse psychology. His guilt trips come complete with complimentary truffles. Allow me to offer a direct interpretation:

 

“Woman, when I pledged to spend the rest of my life with you, I didn’t realize you were crazed. I trust my demonstration of logic and good sense highlights and contrasts your unreasonableness, thereby putting an end to the matter.”

 

“Great,” I said. “I’ll take off the decorations. See if you can find the plastic cover in the bin, will you? It should be about a third of the way down, under the fish heads.”

 

Andrew made me call Spinneys before scrounging through the bin, in the vain hope that Spinneys would refuse to take back the tree and suggest some alternative storage places for it. However, upon hearing my tragic tale of woe, the Duty Manager offered to refund the full amount complete with interest, and apologized profusely for any mental trauma inflicted. He even offered to send someone around to pick up the twig, but I graciously agreed to return it in person.

 

Fully refunded, we went to the Garden Centre and procured a tree for US$ 35 less.

 

The Spinneys tree had been so spindly that we had been able to press our outdoor umbrella stand into service for the presentation of the tree (that particular brainwave attributable to Carole). The Garden Centre tree was so BEEFY that the trunk would not fit into the umbrella stand. Andrew and Raff spent a lot of time competing over who could come up with the most colourful swearword as they tried to prop up the tree in a bucket, but it remained stubbornly lopsided.

 

I left them to it – after all, erecting the Christmas tree is Man Work, there’s no doubt about it.

 

Returning half an hour later, our tree was proudly perpendicular in the corner. I was engrossed in decorating it, when I noticed what looked like a brush handle nudging the star at the top of the tree. Ever practical, Andrew had upended a rake handle in the umbrella stand, lashed the tree to it and swaddled the base in tin foil.

 

Our tree is positively bristling with pine needles and emits a wonderful foresty aroma in the living room. I am now happy . . . and I would even venture out on one of its sturdy limbs to suggest that Andrew is too

The little things: raisins

Raff and Carole left this morning. We thought for a while they might be with us for Christmas because, although their apartment on the Palm Island is more or less ready for occupancy, the Electricity and Water Authority is refusing to turn on their water and electricity.

 

Finally they decided that even erratic electricity and cold water was preferable to cohabiting with Husband, and they abandoned us. I miss them (I totally forgave Raff spilling Bombay Mix on my keyboard.) The margharita detox only intensifies the feelings of loss. Carole left a big pile of chocolate bars in the fridge and every time I snort one whole, I think of her.

 

During the time they spent with us, I managed to indoctrinate them with Father Ted. In honor of Raff and Carole I feel compelled to share my top five moments from Father Ted. Note: these are NOT in order of preference because that’s just impossible:-

 

(1)

Mrs Doyle: Won’t you have some cake, Father? It’s got cocaine in it. Oh no, hang on, it’s not cocaine, is it. What do I mean now? - the little things . . . Ah yes. Raisins!

 

(2)

Dougal: God I’ve never seen a clock at 5 am before!

 

(3)

Ted: What was it Jack used to say about the needy? He had a term for them . . .

Dougal: A shower of bastards.

 

(4)

Father Dougal: Ahh, lets see, I’ll have the Hindu Curry, Steak and Chips, and a glass of Coke thanks.

Policeman: Do you know where you are? You’re in a police station.

Father Dougal: Oh right. Well, in that case, I’ll just have the Satay Chicken.

 

(5)

Ted:Dougal, you can’t sit around here watching television all day - chewing gum for the eyes!

Dougal: Oh no thanks Ted, I’ve got these crisps, here

In support of the pointy bra

Raff and Carole are still with us and have been remarkably easy houseguests - we will miss them when they move on next week. Raff is currently in Saudi Arabia on business, so things have been a bit quieter – there’s no first gear with Raff; he’s on permanent full throttle at Mach 5. He’s got one hell of a sonic boom; when he passes through the house, the foundations shake.

 

A couple of weeks ago Raff discovered my Richard Hittleman’s yoga book. I believe the book was first published back in the 70s; it is a 28 day yoga plan, at the end of which you should – if you follow the instructions – be able to wear your legs wrapped around your neck like a scarf. The book features black and white photos of a post-beehive woman in a pointy bra bending herself into all sorts of unnecessary shapes.

 

My Mum followed the plan for five days in 1981. After she gave up, I inherited her black and red striped Jane Fonda style leotard and the leggings that always smelled like burning rubber. When I was about 12 I used to practice yoga to Double’s ‘Captain Of Her Heart’. (Actually, that would have been 1986, making me 14 and less able to get away with pleading immaturity for the lapse of judgment.)

 

Anyway, Raff found my Richard Hittleman Yoga book in the bathroom and lodged an official complaint:

 

“There are no shots of her arse.”

 

“Well, check out The Plough,” I advised. “I think there’s a picture right up the bum.”

 

“There isn’t. I’ve gone through it twice trying to find the porno shots, but no joy.”

 

“Well, it was written in the 70s when lycra was pretty sturdy.”

 

“God,” said Raff in disgust. “They didn’t have a clue back then, did they?”

 

Raff and Carole have reintroduced me to alcohol. There are relatively few people who compel me to drink - to date, only Raff and Carole and any given member of Andrew’s immediate family (pretty much any/all of them). After eight and a half years together, my husband still tries to entice me with bottles of red wine – he has yet to realize that the quickest way to my heart is a vat of frozen margharita, a wedge of lime and a salt cellar.

 

Carole is a particularly bad influence. It’s not that she force-feeds me booze, but when I say: “God, I could savage a margharita,” she always says, “Oh yes, that sounds good!” Instead of: “Get away from me with that bottle of Tequila, you great big lush.”

Niamh’s top secret mulled wine recipe

Given that we’re coming up to Christmas, I have been refining my mulled wine brew. In case you are stuck, following is a recipe that combines just the right amount of taste sensation with head explosion. I hope you enjoy it:-

 

NIAMH’S SECRET MULLED WINE RECIPE

 

1 x bottle red wine

500ml port

500ml fruity herbal tea (eg blackcurrant/lemon/raspberry tea) or cranberry juice

1 x lemon, cut into slices or wedges

1 x grapefruit or orange, cut into slices or wedges

3 x 3inch long cinnamon sticks

12-16 whole cloves

Small pinch of ground nutmeg (optional)

1/2 teaspoon mixed spice

1/2-1 teaspoon secret ingredient

Add sugar to taste

 

Put a large saucepan over a low heat and pour in the red wine and port. Add the rest of the ingredients in the order listed. Or not, you know, like, whatever. Just get everything in the saucepan, add sugar, stir until dissolved. Bring to the boil and simmer indefinitely. Keep a lid on it or the alcohol will evaporate. Drink. Take off clothes. Dance around living room in the nip

Charred sausages

I am delighted to report that we have had two days of torrential rain and flooding. Ok, it wasn’t torrential as not really that torrential at all much. Although for this part of the world and comparatively speaking, one could argue that without much flexing of imagination it could be described as ‘hosing it’. There was definitely flooding; the city always looks like it’s been cast adrift when it rains.

 

On Sunday, Andrew got up all excited about frying up a big breakfast on his new barbie, but it was raining so hard he had to erect an umbrella over the grill. I had visions of the brolly going up in a raging explosion of flame but thankfully all he charred were the sausages.

 

Andrew accuses me of simply making up large swathes of my emails, but that is a vicious fabrication and completely untrue. He just doesn’t understand Imagination – but then again it takes a while to learn the language. However, the rain brought out Andrew’s creative, expressive side. We were driving across the city to pick up David for lunch. Somehow Andrew got on to rain-themed names for perfumes (we were very bored).

 

“How about: ‘Splatter’?” proposed Andrew. “Maybe better for an aftershave?” he said upon seeing my look. “What about Drizzle?”

 

“Maybe more appropriate for an olive oil.”

 

“How about Drench?”

 

“Isn’t that a worm treatment for cattle?”

 

“Right. How about: Rain. Rain: You’re All Wet. That’s the byline: ‘You’re All Wet’. Get it?”

 

“Yes. There’s probably a very good reason Giorgio never went for that.”

 

We picked up David and went to mOre’s, where we all sat around a bit soggy and gently steaming. We were rather stuck as to what to do with ourselves, so ended up going to see Casino Royale for the second time. What a movie though. Ok I’ll admit it, I have no idea what the plot is about but am most taken with Daniel Craig’s clenching jaw in a swimsuit.

 

Tell the truth, we weren’t really up for much, since we were still recovering from Thursday night. It was the Christina Noble Ball, the only real opportunity we have to get poshed up and glam all year.

 

Generally my makeup is limited to stabbing my eyes with a mascara wand and a quick suck on a stick of Lobello. In honour of the special occasion, I cracked out the powder (literally – it looked like a scaled down version of the Bonneville Flats), concealer, blusher, eye shadow and lip-gloss. Having spent about half an hour on my eyes, I was concerned that it was a little on the dark side. That’s the shade, not The Force as applied by the Siths.

 

When Husband came in from work, he was sitting on the bed taking off his socks and I sashayed out of the bathroom, issued a sultry pout, and said: “Andrew, what do you think of my eye shadow? Is it ok? Not a bit heavy, is it?”

 

Andrew said . . .

 

Sorry to hold you in suspense, but this deserves a moment for dramatic effect.

 

Andrew said:

 

“You look like a drug addict.”

 

Carole said the eye shadow was very subtle, but I’m not sure whether she was just being nice.  

 

“You look gorgeous,” said My Beloved as I drove us to the ball.

 

“Asshole!” I muttered.

 

At the hotel, only valet parking was available. There were vehicles everywhere but in the middle of general mayhem I discerned two loose lines of cars. Behind me were cars flashing their lights and blaring the horns and I had the valet parker waving me to the left. Just to clarify the situation, Andrew said: “Left. Left. Left, left, Left, LEFT, LEFTLEFTLEFT!”

 

“Shut up!” I roared.

 

When we sat down for dinner I was still sulking with him.

 

“Don’t even dream of being charming,” I snapped at him, snapping out my napkin in a way that underscored the sentiment. “Put away those hound dog eyes of yours immediately. I’m sulking really very hard with you at the moment.”

 

(It was a little distressing that he hadn’t noticed up until that point; and even then it had to be communicated via megaphone. I’ve lost much of my pouting ability due to lack of practice.)

 

“Baby!” exclaimed Andrew, who at this point had snorted two pints of Fosters. “But whyee?”

 

“Why? Well, first of all, you call me a drug addict. Then you play with your PDA all the way to the hotel,” – (because he’d played with his PDA all the way to the hotel) – “THEN, you’re all leftleftleft! And now with the big googly eyes. It’s not going to work.”

 

But then he tried to wink, which is such a cheat - he knows it always cracks me up. It’s about the only thing I am aware of that Andrew can’t do. Hack into computer systems? Check. Fix broken cars? No problem. Navigate across Mongolia by the stars? Just point him in the right direction. But close one eyelid while keeping the other open? He’s pure rubbish.

 

(Andrew: “There! There! Look! I’m winking!”

 

Me: “Technically you’re blinking.”)

 

He gets quite annoyed about this fundamental inability (look, even a foetus can WINK). I forgave him when the tears were running down his face after he sprained his eyeball.

 

It was just as well because the guy next to me was putting on some serious moves. It’s only the second time in my life that someone has used the word ‘horny’ in direct conversation with me – I have to say, it’s quite a turnoff. Or am I just a prude? Perhaps it might have been flattering had he not been quite evidently desperate, not to mention sousled and sporting a layer of charcoal on his upper lip (oh please, it’s better if you just don’t ask).

 

According to Belle, Andrew also had an admirer but he flatly denied it under questioning, perhaps because she was a bit chubby.

 

A quantity surveyor showed me a picture of him with two topless women.

 

We got well plastered. Andrew – and this will give you an inkling of how sauced-up he was – hauled me onto the dance floor and started squirming around. Sorry, there’s just no other way to put it. Once he’s had a few drinks he fancies himself as quite the sex god. When Andrew feels moved to express himself via the medium of dance, you might be surprised at the amount of pelvic grinding involved. He also likes to twirl, which is kind of . . . er well, I was going to say ‘attractive’, but in the interests of accuracy I’ll have to go with ‘rotational’.

 

We managed to stumble home around 03:30hrs. When drunk, Andrew likes to nibble my hair and then snores very loudly. What with that and the rattling windows, I don’t generally enjoy much restful slumber post alcohol abuse

Raff’s new Harley

Hear those revs, see that face

 

Carol works up an impressive amount of enthusiasm considering her headgear

Perverts can’t swim

This morning I struggled down to the beach at 08:00hrs. Carole bravely accompanied me, although she was a bit concerned about perverts. There has been a lot of publicity recently about men loitering on the beach for a leer. I haven’t been, er, exposed much to that sort of stuff apart from one morning when Róisín was over. We’d chosen a spot next to the outdoor shower. There was a bloke having a wash and upon seeing us, he plunged his hands down the front of his shorts and administered a really very thorough cleansing.

 

“Róisín!” I whispered. “That man! He has his hands down his shorts!”

 

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m a nurse.”

 

I felt she wasn’t so much missing the point as totally losing her grip on the space-time continuum.

 

“Róisííííín!” I hissed urgently. “He’s got his mickey out! He’s floppin’ it around!”

 

“Ah sure, all power to him.”

 

If I’d been on my own, I would have had no qualms about saying: “Put that thing away immediately,” but Róisín seemed unperturbed so I left her to it. Once I’m in the water I’m not that fussed; controlled studies have shown that perverts can’t swim very well.

 

Since there were no perverts in evidence this morning, I left Carole power-walking up the beach. I think I might still have been drunk, because I was in blistering form. I was pounding towards the shore 2000m later when I swam into a stingray. There are plenty of them about, usually buried in the sand where all you can see of them is their outline and a pair of beady black eyes.

 

This time I was in about five feet of water and he gave me quite a shock when he rippled beneath me. I don’t think I’ve ever been that close to a ray before and I’m not keen on repeating the experience.

 

That said, according to Wikipedia: ’stingrays don’t usually attack aggressively’ (which prompted me to wonder whether there is any other way to attack? Can you attack kindly? Peacefully? I suppose friendly fire is a sort of sociable assault, is it?)

 

Viv is organizing a swim around the Jumeirah Palm Island in February and I suspect I might have accidentally signed up for it. It’s a distance of 20 kilometres and I’m a bit dubious - I mean, that’s nearly as far as the English Channel - well, only 14 km less. But Channel swimmers train from the age of three. Also, Nakheel is still dredging; in this part of the world there’s a distinct possibility of being sucked up and having your skull become a feature in Posh and Beck’s garden