No more double zeros

Feels like Christmas never happened.  Can it really be nearly the end of January 2010?  We’ll never see another double zero year in our lifetimes.  How depressing.

Past drunkenness forgiven, H, B, G and I had a magic Christmas and New Year at my parents.  As usual, all decorating, card sending, present buying and wrapping, ticket purchasing, car packing etc, fell to me.  B helped ‘decorate’ the tree (I’m still hoovering up lametta today) but H hung not so much as a bauble.  I keep harping on that “if I get run over by a bus I need to die knowing you’ll give the kids a good Christmas!” but as motivational techniques go, this morbid cry is strangely ineffective.  He put the deccies back in the shed so mustn’t grumble.

Poor H.  He does get a lambasting.  He made the mistake of muttering something recently about taking up golf.  My reaction was visceral to say the least, golf being a red rag to my bullish nature.  Little enough is achieved round this house at the weekend without H taking up such a tiresome game (I won’t dignify it with the title ‘sport’).  Golf is just another excuse to get blind drunk with boring old men who mistakenly believe donning tasteless clothing, whacking at a small ball and expounding loudly about it afterwards over expensive malts is a grown-up pastime and not simply another manifestation of the mind-bogglingly childish behaviour of the male sex.  It is exclusive, misogynistic, time-consuming, childish, overly competitive, uninteresting and expensive. It is abandonment by stealth. I told him if he wants to dump his kids he can bloody well pack a bag and go, otherwise wait until they’re 18 before taking up such a stupid hobby.

On a happier note; went to a Pampered Chef party the other night (exclusive invite to the nursery clique – maybe I’m in!  That’s harder to join than any bloody golf club.) and managed to spunk £77 on stoneware, an apple corer and two (yes, two) hand-heating ice cream scoops at £13 a pop.
Never knock back the vinos with a Pampered Chef catalogue in one hand and a cheque book in the other…