Midwinter Blues
January, and the slow cycle of the year starts over again. I reach for abottle of wine, already deep into my mid-winter trough. It happens everyyear, this downer; has done for as long as I can remember. Maybeeveryone experiences a touch of SAD at this time of the year; probablythe anticlimax after the Christmas goodies.For me, it starts earlier than it does for most. It comes on in the
middle of December. That’s when I start seeing the reality of Christmas,
looming ahead like a brick wall with no gate; a wall that goes on forever
in every direction. I can’t go round it, so I’ve got to get over it –
a
fearsome obstacle. It’s the price I pay for a misspent youth, where the
Christmas season was a nightmare blur, peopled by misty phantoms, andI was a derelict on the Sea of Alcohol.
Those days are gone now. I’m staid, and tamed by the ravages of
time and the rules of a good woman. The festive season is still a blur.
But now it’s the blur of domesticity, the comings and goings of famil
y andfriends, the meals in our house and the meals in theirs. The struggle to
put faces to names and names to faces. “Who’s that?” I hiss at my wife
through the side of my mouth
–
like a con, touting for ganja in themorning exercise yard
–
as some misty faced stranger gives us a franticwave and head-
severing grin from the far side of a festive hall. “It’sGertie Gobbledegook from two doors down,” my wife mutters in disbelief. “You see her every other day.” I force a grin and wave back at our
chameleon ne
ighbour. “She looks distorted when she’s off piste,” I growl,angry at the woman’s skill in natural camouflage.
I’m rubbish on the present
-buying-front too. Buying big-knickers forold women and socks for their creaking husbands is way above my IQ-score. I could cope in the old days when I wandered round Marks andSparks eyeing the multi-coloured lingerie and wondering which flimsywould look best on which of the pretty girls that my mates had purloined,while buying coffin-nails and matches to deflect the suspicions of themen. But those days are gone too. The cigarettes have taken their tolland the surviving ladies are bladders of lard with drawers like bell tents.Tension mounts as the winter-nights start ever earlier. Torrents of grey rain sweep in off the cold Atlantic. I trudge behind my wife throughthrongs of sulky December-people who shuffle around the maze of shelves in our local supermarket. Every now and again, Liz bumps into a
friend or acquaintance... I don’t have any. I stand, waiting, like an
obedient hound, listening to yet another rerun of the conversation that Ihear repeated half a dozen times on every shopping expedition
throughout the year. Except now, it starts with, “Are you ready forChristmas? Have you got your presents in yet?” As a
lways, they
are
readyand we
aren’t.
The depression deepens.Now we stumble into some smartarse woman, who says that she
always has... “My presents bought and wrapped the week after thisChristmas, ready for next Christmas.” Nah
-nah-na-nah-nah! I comfort
myself with the thought that, “If one of her friends drops dead, she’swasted her money.”
Christmas morning; family are coming for dinner; the kitchen transmutesinto Hades. Elizabeth cremates a dead fowl in the oven. Roasting tinsspit, threatening to engulf us in flame. Pans hiss and rattle on hobs.Water boils. Steam belches. Windows glaze. Fumes and smells engulf thehouse. Smoke alarms scream from the landing and loft. Compost boxesspew peelings and scrapings over surfaces and floor. Pots pile in the sink.Freezer roars. Dishwasher trundles. Washing machine screams like acheap charter-jet on a desperate take-off. Overloaded fridge vibrates,rattling knives, skewers and implements that litter the groaning table.
I’m out of my depth, staggering about blindly, wanting to help, yet
getting in the way. The doorbell rings; bloodcurdling screams as I goheadlong, cursing, over the cat. People pile into the hall and overflow intothe trembling kitchen. A dog shakes itself violently, spraying a head full of body-fluid over the mince pies. Another wedges a massive head betweenthe venison and sausage-rolls, tongue slithering over the table like aslimy red reptile.
Elizabeth barks one of her strange commands, “#@&=+!?” “What does it look like?” I wonder, clueless, walking round in a
circle, mouth and eyes wide, like a man with a loose connection.A stray piece in the wrong jigsaw box, I decide to make myself
scarce, “Anyone for a drink?” I ask the guests, nervously. They ignoreme, busy talking among themselves. “Help yourself,” I mutter,
pouringmyself a glass of red.
“Did you get it?” Elizabeth demands. “Get what? Where did you put it?” I snap. I haven’t a clue what
it
is.
“It’s on the thing!” she tells me.
I blink, hopelessly. She communicates in code when she’s under
pressure, either that, or she talks to an invisible third person. It all datesback to the years before we met. I think she was in the Secret Service.
“I’ll get it myself,” she mutters impatiently, pushing past.
I scratch my backside...Elizabeth started tensing a cou
ple of weeks ago. I can tell when she’s
uptight, she continually vacuums, gives orders in code, and talks to athird person about me.Like that day a couple of weeks back... I hear her yelling above the
din of the Miele, “The carpet’s changing colour!” she
screams. That bringsme bounding downstairs, two risers to the leap, expecting to see some
devil’s work taking place before my very eyes. I stumble down the hall
and stand, gasping, in the living room doorway, peering at the carpet. Itlooks the same as i
t always looks to me. “What do you mean, changingcolour?” I ask, baffled.
“Well –
look at it!”
I squint at the floor. “It’s only wine stains,” I say, comfortingly.
“Dog hair!” she yells. “It’s covered in dog hair!” Then she goes
charging after the vac, which has revved-up in anticipation and is alreadyroaring round the furniture.As I sit recovering from the drama, I hear her shouting from the top
of the stairs. “Someone’s left their socks on the bathroom floor...” It’s my
turn to tense. Who is she talking to? And who is she talking about?
Now she’s shouting again. “They’ve left dirty underpants on thebed!” “My God!” I’m racing upstairs now. There must be a flasher loose inbuilding. But, when I reach the top step, I find that it’s my clothes thatshe’s talking about –
and she’s telling that invisible bloke from the Secret
Service about me.January the 1
st
finds us dog-sitting for Dougal, the labradoodle, sevensuper-
charged stone of solid muscle. “He needs exercise,” Liz decides, “we’ll walk to the field and throw his ball.” Exercise, for Dougal, does not
mean taking doggie for walkies. Exercise for Dougal entails a cocktail of weightlifting and all-in wrestling for any human involved. This dog is theepitome of the binary mind in action.
Thought deed thought deed thought...
Liz carries the launcher in one hand and the ball in her pocket. Thebinary mind goes
–
ball get ball get
... My arm shoots across the pavement,me following, as the beast launches himself at Liz and rams his nose inher pocke
t. “Sit!” I scream. The binary mind goes
sit arse
... Dougal’s
backside hits the deck and he freezes.
After several attempts, I come up with the solution. “You goahead,” I tell Liz, “and we’ll follow.” Liz moves reluctantly away. Master
and dog wait. I want to put distance between us, so that the ball nolonger dominates the binary mind. But I have not allowed for Liz. Shecomes to a pedestrian crossing, which we must cross to get to the field.Years of training in the Secret Service abandon her. She becomesindecisive and stands on the edge of the kerb by the crossing, waving herarms frantically as she wonders what to do next.Cars, heading in both directions, slow down and stop, their driversbemused by a gesticulating woman. No one wants breathalysing on New
Year’s Day for zapping someone on a pedestrian crossing. Other cars pull
up behind. Then more cars...
I panic. I’ve read stories about road rage. Mad drivers splatter people
on the pavement with baseball bats. I have visions of Dougal, bolting for
home with a driver’s leg in his mouth. “Get across! Get across!” I yell at
Liz. She crosses, then stands gesticulating on the far side of the road.
More cars stop. I give up. “We’ll have to join her! Go!” I scream. The
binary mind thinks,
ball
... I fly behind like a kite as Dougal shoots over
the road and rams his nose in Liz’s pocket...
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