A Christmas Story

Last Christmas…

Here I am, sitting in Mum and Dad’s living room, surrounded by wrapping paper and half-opened presents, thinking, ‘You know what would make this better? A baby. Wouldn’t it be good to have a baby in time for next Christmas?’

I glance furtively at Simon, trying in vain to read his mind. Nothing. And then I shelve the thought, filing it in the box in my mind marked ‘for when I’m grown up’. Babies - or rather, having babies - is something that is a good idea only in theory, something to be put off until such a time as I feel ready. I think of all those sleepless nights and dirty nappies and shudder.

Last January…

I am in Bangkok, sitting in the shade of a banyan tree, looking out over the murky waters of the Chao Phraya. I’m here to finish my novel, to write a travel feature and to get away from work. An unopened book lies on my lap. I am thinking of absolutely nothing: no worries about what people think of this strange farang sitting on her own; no deadlines; no need to think of the next thing to do, or think of all the things I should be doing. Sparrows hop about above my head, occasionally darting to the ground to peck at the ants marching purposefully around my feet. I stay perfectly, blissfully, still. For the first time in my life, I am happy just to be.

Last Valentine’s…

Simon and I go out for a romantic meal, drink too much and, when he suggests we have a baby, we both giggle. In the cold light of the following day, even with a monstrous hangover, it still seems like a good idea.

This Christmas…

There’s a glass of champagne by my side, the dog has a Christmas squeaky toy in his mouth, I’ve just polished off the remainder of the After Eights and Simon is wrestling with a nut roast in the kitchen. Christmas dinner is not going well. Simon has just popped his head round the door to tell me that a) the parsnips have cooked but the carrots haven’t, b) the roast potatoes have degenerated into a fluffy mush and c) the nut roast would probably be OK but for the fact that he can’t get it in the oven due to said root vegetables clogging up all available space. To counteract the likelihood that dinner will be ‘the worst meal you’ve ever eaten’, Simon is knocking back port, red wine and champagne. I’m not sure how this helps me.

And then Simon walks over to where you are lying in my lap. ‘Ah, who cares about Christmas dinner?’ he says. ‘Look at him. He’s an absolute angel.’

Simon totters off; you give me a milky gurgle and promptly puke all down your festive dungarees.

So here I am, sitting in my own living room, surrounded by wrapping paper and opened presents, thinking, ‘You know what would make this better? Nothing. Nothing at all.’

PS. For the record, Simon’s Christmas dinner was lovely…