Half Life – 10 – five days
January 1st, 2021
Snuggling between the Bacchanalian mania of Christmas Day and the drunken challenge of New Year’s Eve were five days no one really knew what to do with this year, other than act as a buffer to allow our livers to recover from the assault they had just been given and prepare for the one they were about to get. In previous years, involving lower levels of countrywide house-arrest, sunburn lovers headed to warm places, like Thailand or Dubai, and those in search of expensive ways to break their legs would go skiing. Our plans had been less ambitious and involved seeing numerous family members in rapid succession. With all these masochistic vacations now denied, the door was opened to the rare opportunity of having five duvet days and simply staying warm indoors, drinking coffee, tea, wine, or brandy depending on the time of day, and waiting for the year to get itself over with.
My special gift this year, just before we headed into the holiday season, was a blood test which told me the drugs were not working properly; the ones that keep Nobby asleep and not bothering me. They’ve not completely stopped, but the crafty cancer has started to work his way round them and so allow him to continue his slow, and very annoying, adventures around my bones and organs. Uninvited guests are usually welcomed with open arms in our house but, in this instance, we could have done without him joining in. He failed to bring any Christmas presents and sat in the corner on his own being grumpy. We ignored him and I hope he had a rotten time as I embarked on my personal version of chemotherapy to persuade him to leave. I poisoned him with Champagne early in the morning, beat him up with red wine during the day and, just when he thought it was all over, delivered a seriously good brandy kicking late into the evening. Take that, you anti-social, mutated cell, interloper I thought, as I slipped into what must have been a Christmas-chemo induced sleep.
My hope of five consecutive duvet days of recovery were dashed, however, when the NHS, in a burst of last-minute efficiency, dragged me in for a scan on the Bank Holiday. Still in a party mood, and probably caused by not fully getting over the brandy from the previous days, I discovered that humour in NHS staff working on what should be a day off cannot be taken for granted. Apparently, pointing my crutch at a medic, while being pushed in a wheelchair by The Wife through the corridors of the hospital, and shouting in my best Dalek voice – ‘You are The Doctor! Exterminate! Exterminate!’ – is not very funny. It’s a lesson I will need to remember as the diary has already started to fill up with more appointments for next year. At least they’ll get me out of the house, give me something to look forward to, and allow me to play with my still shiny new car. The next blood tests are, luckily, not until well into next year. I blame it on Nobby and he had better have sobered up by then, or it’s not going to look good.
Christmas threw up another interesting new revelation; carving a turkey with claws is difficult. The once strong, beautiful, hands I had attached to the ends of my arms have been turned into a set of dysfunctional talons. They are yet another selfish gift from Nobby some time ago, made worse by the chemo. I can’t close them or grip properly due to the swelling in every joint. My wedding ring long ago relocated to hanging off a chain around my neck, making a fist is a memory even more distant than walking, and cups are often picked up with both hands. Carving a turkey, the manly privilege that comes with having cooked it, requires a strong, tight grip on the large fork to hold the giant still while slicing up its limbs and breast into attractive portions. Although we all got large portions, my carving was in no danger of gracing the front pages of a food magazine. JJ happily gobbled up the lumps of succulent, warm, bird flesh I sent skidding off the chopping board onto the floor and had her dinner before any of us. I delegated the second, third, and fourth carvings to The Wife, who was sufficiently filled with the Christmas spirit not to mention she should have done it in the first place.
The run up to January turns as all into Nostradamus, as we fire out predictions and prophecies for the coming year. Usually, the ones about our own good intentions and resolutions being the least believable. Given the past year, however, guessing what will happen gives far greater scope for amusement, and we have had five days of doing very little to think about it. My top picks? Trump will, in his final days, flee prosecution and fly to Russia, where they will make him King of Crimea and he will continue to harass the world via Twitter and his own Trump TV, which will make soviet-era Pravda look like a historical publication of unerring accuracy. Twitter will finally get fed up and turn off his account, only to see endless new accounts turn up claiming to be him. Here in the UK, Boris will be the first British Prime Minister to be assassinated by his own children, who are fed up with him refusing to acknowledge their existence. The Scottish Nationalists will vote to leave the UK and join Ireland, so bypassing the need to reapply to the EU, and Jacob Rees-Mogg’s castle will be stormed by an army of hungry children, led by Marcus Rashford, armed with the sharpened edges of used UN food tins.
As the sun sets on one year, let’s hope a brighter dawn rises on the new one. Although, I will make no promises about alcohol intake, sugary foods, meat consumption, misbehaviour, or swearing – none of which I am prepared to give up or even reduce. I will make a commitment to do my best to be here this time next year. It might have to be another Christmas with Nobby, but it will be another Christmas.
Happy New Year to everyone and I hope 2021 is better for all of us.
Another poignant, self-deprecating, funny post. Loved it! (And Nobby sucks)
A bit late to reading your wonderful and amusing blog. Happy 2021 to the Elvins. Xx