cinders, you shall go to the school christmas disco

Whether it’s down to the early Slade saturation during Panto Idol, or the two-voice carolled howlings since late October as the kids rehearsed their school’s seasonal CD over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over an…

… sorry…

…this year I’ve caught a dose of Christmas. And caught it early.

Even though the box of deccies has been blocking my wardrobe door for three weeks, since dragging it out of the loft in search of tinsel sacrifice for the dress rehearsal; even though, yes, it’s still commercial and no, I’m not a Christian; even though eBay sales of my secondhand gleanings dribbled to drippings and have been abandoned til late January; even though, even though, even though, d’ya know

I’m enjoying getting quietly Christmassy.

Being a bit smug helps. Knowing that the huge box on top of the wardrobe rustles and squeaks with all the bags and boxes that surely should be in Lapland right now, or at least on a chartered Amazon jet to Lapland. That helps. The 50 49 bottles of wine, yes you read that right, damn wine clubs and all their freebies, credit notes and ‘Festive Offers’. They help. And will keep on helping. Daresay. Searching for naval jewellery for my youngest niece and finding myself staring into the eye of a doubly-pierced willy doesn’t exactly help, but it breaks the monotony.

Bringing out The Shirt also helps.

It’s the school Christmas Disco tonight. Not what you’d consider the highlight of a busy and popular, beautiful and competent 30-something’s (what do you mean, ’who’?) festive calendar.

But they have a bar. And jacket potatoes, oh yes; a hefty portion of which are raw and unwrapped on my kitchen table – note to self for later, BAKE THEM. And a load of the parents who are going are lovely.

And I get to bring out The Shirt. The one I found in Afflecks one summer for a couple of quid, and being The Clut Hoarding High Priestess Of It-Might-Come-In-Handy having foresight, I bought it and shoved it in the wardrobe, where it quietly hums Jingle bells to itself for 50 weeks of the year, completely pissing off the grumpy sequined Whistles vest top that’s ne’er seen the light of day.

Hang on, my camera has got one of those swivel screen things that lets you see what you’re taking a pik of, I’ll stick the shirt on … let’s see …

[much time passes]

Oooookaayyyyy… not as easy as I thought it would be. I haven’t a clue how that camera took half of those angles, even though I was staring at the screen This one’ll do:





Shirt! Bet you want one. Oh yes, I am the queen of exquisite taste, and refinement nonpareil. My santas go upside-down, rightside-up and side-to-side.

What the pik doesn’t show are the rather splendid, wing-like fold-back cuffs.

My recent habit of swapping a butterless banana butty breakfast for brownies and bikkies means I can’t comfortably button the shirt over The Ladies this year without Unseemly Gape. So swapped Gape for Gap (sorry rocketeer, but needs must when the devil wears pink pyjamas) and am wearing it half-buttoned over one of their ever-so-handy stretchy tops.

So that’s today’s glamorous, fairytale future. For now it’s shirt off, jumper on, and let’s get scrubbing that loo, then finish off a piece about John Cleese’s lunar nodes.

Which are not as painful as they sound.