"Right pig's ear of a festive period"

I’ve decided the whole Christmas holiday time is in fact, very much like PMT. For those not au fait with female syntax, that would be Pre-Menstrual Tension. Now that you have the definition, you understand even less, don’t you?

Well now, there are schools of thought stating that women suffer the effects of PMT before their period and/or during and/or afterwards. Although I am no good at calculating things, quite frankly, it would appear to me as though the before, the during and afterwards take up a huge amount of a month. Thus meaning that women are in fact at the mercy of PMT all live long month should their hormones wish it.

This seems terribly boring, tedious and unfair – not just to the woman in question but to all surrounding her… So, the connection with the Christmas holiday period? Well, the Santa eager beavers start counting down the days to Christmas after Halloween. And the shops start advertising the best new toy since I don’t know what, mid November if not earlier. This quickly totals up a pre-Christmas frenzy of nothing less than a month, if not more.

Then, you have from Christmas Eve till New Year’s Eve to talk about what you did and what you got and what you didn’t stop yourself from eating that Christmas. And then the first two weeks of January are inevitably filled with how the entire holiday went.

So you see, like PMT, we have the before, the during and now that we are inside the two weeks of January, I will fill up your afterwards, with my Christmas tale.
It all began hundreds of years ago when Spain decided its traditional Christmas Eve meal was to be a seafood based platter. In our family, we tend to make bisque. My granny had a hot date with a fish monger and stripped him of all his goodies, bringing home kilos upon kilos of fishy food stuffs. All beasts were peeled and left ready to be boiled for the traditional supper of the 24th of December, at around 10pm.

The power went out at about 8pm. Just as were going to begin to cook, the power died. This happens sometimes and when it does, somebody plods downstairs, flips a switch and the house starts humming once more. This time there was no such luck and we found ourselves with electricity only in the grandparent’s rooms, the sitting room and the kitchen bulb, thank goodness. Nothing else was working. I lie, the treadmill was working and I refused to see it as a sign.

We hummmed and ahhhed about what to do and finally as hunger set in and we realized that in fact there no hot water thus no showers, the batteries to the torches were dying, there was no cooker thus no traditional supper and no heating… that short of the entire family sharing a bed, we should open some champagne and eat cold cuts.

At 7am the next morning, Christmas morning, my mother decided to go for a wonder around the garden and happened to see the light of the swimming pool control room was on. This is a small little, cave like room, underground – under the pool. The light shone out like some eery UFO in the dawn. She wondered over and saw the entire room was flooded. Please note, the room is barely 2 metres in height, and the water was about a metre deep.

After the whole Christmas morning breakfast hoo-ha, my mother shared with us all the small matter of the flood. Before I could even work out whether that whole mess had anything to do with me and how I could get out of it should someone decide it did – I found myself freshly showered, blow dried hair, in a pair of wellies and carting buckets full of some hideous liquid that smelt like a mixture of stagnant swamp, pig sty and putrid flesh. Or at least, what I imagine putrid flesh would smell like. We created a chain of four people, each doing their bit to make the metre high swamp go down and suddenly I decided I would never live on a farm and I would never shower before checking out possible flood spots in the garden.

The clean, nail painted child inside me cried for about 5 seconds, before I embraced the filth I was dealing with and I am proud to say that every time some of that horrendous water splashed on my face or forearms, I died a little less inside. Up side? The power was back on and the Christmas lunch was a go!

New Years was supposed to be spent in the Algarve. We went to Lisbon first, which served for me to dislocate my shoulder and to show us that there was torrential weather in Portugal and even worse in the South.

The shoulder was fixed by an excellent Shiatsu practitioner, but I can safely say I have never had my fats prodded, poked and handled in such an unceremonious manner as I did that day. I must also say, that it was one of the most effective treatments I have ever received.

Now, upon realizing the South was having its very own Katrina, we decided to stay in Lisbon. And just as well. On NYE my left cheek swelled up, leaving me looking like a lop-sided chipmunk. Things got worse, the wisdomosity infection appeared to be spreading, the throat closing up and the only option was A&E.

Drugs and anti-inflammatories were handed out like sweeties and I was in bed on NYE at 7pm. Of course, we count our blessings, some people had more severe visits to A&E – inside which I do not only include alcoholic stupours.

Now we are done with the Christmas holiday period and can look forward to Easter. Yes, we are about 4 months away, but by now, we know how this thing works. As for the bumpy start to 2010, you know what they say: What starts with a struggle, ends well! And if this isn’t a saying, it ought to be. Happy 2010!