Merry Christmas, chums!
The phrase “Happy Holidays” has been banned in the Trent-Vandenburg household ever since an Evri delivery driver had the poor idea of uttering it to Papa as he was picking up the new Velvetiser.
Let’s just say that man got fewer than five stars! Oh, and there’s a fist-shaped hole in the hallway wall that needs re-painting in Elephant’s Breath (it has a different shade depending on the lighting, you know!).
After the fall of the Tories, Papa has never been the same regarding politics. Whenever it’s mentioned, he develops a stormy look and mutters into his bran flakes. I fear if he sees the news about the Tesco “evergreen” trees, he’ll finally have that stroke he keeps talking about.
I really do feel for all the chums out there that can’t spend the season with their families. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have Mummy here to warm my slippers by the AGA so I don’t get cold feet when I come back from cello practice.
I’ve informed my tutor that I’ll only be playing Crimbo Classics until the New Year — let’s just say, it’ll be hard not to hark the herald angels if you’re in the vicinity of Thornberry View!
Then again, it’ll be hard to get in the vicinity of Thornberry View. Papa’s gun restriction has just expired, so he’s perched in the attic window shooting at any rabbit unlucky enough to get within a few meters of the premises. He claims it’s because he enjoys an “innocent animal” with his nut roast, but I’m not so sure. The maniacal laughter’s really putting me off my revision.
I’m kidding, of course. What revision?
Now, I’ve had some chums insinuate in the past that the Trent-Vandenburg traditions aren’t like everyone else, so I’m here to dispel those rumours. Just like those at state schools (bite back the bile, chums, they’re only mentioned for a moment!) I too delight in circling the products in the Lakeland catalogue and handing it back just so that Mummy can simply purchase me whatever she found at the local artisan fair. I’m getting rather sick of goat’s cheese pizza and hand-painted cards.
At least they’re no longer in my stocking. Mummy and Papa declined to tell me that Santa Claus wasn’t real until I hit the ripe age of 14, which made Christmas at Mountbatten incredibly awkward when a young Jonty woke up to find nothing at the end of his bed except a used tissue and a discarded copy of The Guardian.
Christmas in Goudhurst (the closest hamlet to Thornberry, only a quick jaunt down the A21) is absolutely delightful. Ever since half the council got done for shagging one another (old people really have nothing else to do), the new folks have injected a real sense of seasonal cheer into the singular street.
There are lights on the village shop, the village hall and all six of the pubs, as well as a consistent carol choir courtesy of Goudhurst’s ‘golden oldies’ — at least, until they get found out for dogging on the village green.
My favourite part of Crimbo, though, will always be the food. Papa orders the Christmas dinner from Waitrose and picks it up on the day, which is handy considering Mummy is normally so toasted off the buck’s fizz that she can’t stand.
That means her dinner goes to our black lab, Monty, who normally picks around the stuffing (it irritates his stomach). By the time she wakes up, it’s Boxing Day anyway, so we simply stick her in front of The Archers with a box of After Eights until she regains consciousness.
Everyone says that pigs in blankets are their favourites, but I prefer the bread sauce. Something about the colour and consistency just reminds me of my time at boarding school.
The organic ham-wrapped turkey’s normally inedible, and the honeyed parsnips make my throat hurt, but we all know family is the most important part of Christmas. Sometimes Papa puts down his John Grisham and tries to make conversation over the sound of Mummy’s snoring. It never works, but it’s the thought that counts.
Unfortunately, I have to leave you now, chums. Snow is beginning to fall on my windowsill, the lights are twinkling just right, and I can smell the warm tones of burning cashmere, meaning Mummy’s forgotten about my slippers.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
– Jonty Trent-Vandenburg
