Sunday, 5 January 2014

Happy 2014


The New Year is now well and truly underway.  It would seem many of us out there were pleased to wave good-bye to 2013 (I was one of them) and are keeping our fingers crossed that 2014 will be kinder.  At Casa Viggiano, New Year’s Eve was one of peace and quiet.
          My sister telephoned on New Year’s Day.  ‘How was it for you?’ she trilled.
          ‘Quiet,’ I replied.
          ‘Oh, you mean boring.’
          ‘No, I mean quiet,’ I said through slightly gritted teeth.
          ‘You should have gone out, like us.  We went to a black tie event.  A ball.  It was wonderful.  I’ve never had so much fun.  It was brilliant dancing non-stop for three hours.’
          Well obviously it would have been fun to go out.  What woman doesn’t want to put on a glam frock and rock like nobody is watching.  Especially when I’m so good at the Birdie Dance.  However, I was on taxi duties to my sixteen year old, and that rather put a lid on any of my own intended party frivolity.

          ‘You should have told Eleanor, “Too bad, I’m going out, not you,” and let her get over it.’
          'Oh, yeah, that would have been a fab start to the New Year.  Dealing with an even more stroppy teenager than usual.'
          ‘So what did you actually do on this fabulous quiet night in?’ my sister persisted.
          ‘I watched that film, you know, Clouseau.’
          ‘Peter Sellers?’
          ‘No, Steve Martin.’
          ‘Oh God, that was dire.’
          ‘I found it funny.  I like silly humour.’
          ‘I’ll bet Mr V loved you for appropriating the television so he couldn’t watch football.’
          ‘Of course he didn’t mind!’
          This wasn’t strictly true.  The husband watched the film under duress.  My sense of humour isn’t his.  He doesn’t do slapstick.  Or farce.  Or…well…anything other than sport really.  So I left him to work his way through a bottle of Prosecco while I creased up at two grown men wearing pink outfits and blending in with curtains before launching into a routine as Beyonc√©’s backing dancers.
          ‘Sounds riveting,’ my sister said drily.  ‘And what did you do after that?’
          ‘Took Eleanor and her boyfriend to their party, came home, went on Facebook, took my Scrabble moves, chatted to people near and far, and then watched the fireworks – which were absolutely spectacular.’
          ‘Gosh, how exciting.  Not.  And what time did you go to bed?’
          ‘Um, it was quite late actually.  I think it was gone 2 before I put the light out.’
          ‘Really?  Did you go somewhere after the fireworks then?’
          ‘Yes, I went to pick Eleanor and her boyfriend up from their party.’
          There was a stunned pause.
          ‘So let me get this straight.  You went to bed really late, but didn’t actually go anywhere other than up and down the motorway?’
          ‘Yes.  But that’s what parents do on occasions like New Year’s Eve.’
          ‘Thank heavens I never had children,’ said my sister faintly.
          Anyway, I’ve more than made up for any dancing deprivation since New Year’s Eve.  You see, the children gave me an iPod for Christmas.  It’s fabulous.  I now dance all over the house – up the stairs, down again, round the table as I set it for supper, over to the dishwasher, you get the picture.  And when I can’t dance – like when ironing for example – I sing instead.  Which rather unnerves the family if they don’t realize I’m plugged in.
          ‘Can I have a lift?’ asked my son.  ‘Mum?  Did you hear me?  Can you take me to Ebbsfleet Station?  Mum?  MUM!’
          ‘I said I loved yooooo…warble warble…but I lied.’
          ‘Does that mean you won’t give me a lift?’
          ‘What?’
          ‘A lift?’
          ‘What?’
          ‘To Ebbsfleet?’
          ‘What?’
          Followed by two earpieces being wrenched from my person and my son almost bellowing his request for a lift.
          ‘I’m not deaf, you know!’
          ‘And what is that rubbish song you’re singing?’
          ‘Michael Bolton.  Lots of hair.  And a fit body.’
          Argh, that’s not how I want to hear my mother talking.  Are your hormones playing up again?’
          Which reminds me.  Many of our New Year’s Resolutions will be to get fitter.  If, like me, you don’t want to harm your middle-aged body, try the following:


Day 1
Beat around the bush
Jump to conclusions
Go over the edge


Day 2
Drag your heels
Push your luck
Put your foot in your mouth


Day 3
Make mountains out of molehills
Hit the nail on the head
Open a can of worms


Day 4
Jump on the latest bandwagon
Run around in circles all day
Lift a glass of your favourite tipple


Day 5
Start the ball rolling
Go to pieces
Blow your own trumpet


Day 6
Raise the roof
Skip the washing up
Add fuel to the fire


Day 7
Kneel in prayer, raise hands in praise, bow head to the Mighty I AM that I AM
Wade through newspaper to conclude.
What an amazing workout!

No comments:

Post a Comment