(...and it's not just being a terrible, dirty, stinking liar. Yes, I know I said ALMOST A YEAR AGO that I would post again and be a good little blogger, and blah blah blah shut up shut up I can't hear you la laaaal aaaa paaaaaaaarp)
Anyway.
So, what's happened? Well, Lumpy is 18 now, and recently started an Accounting course at Bangor University, but apart from that, not much.
He's a bit bigger, let's just say. And talking. Talkingtalkingtalking yabba yabba mummymummy let me explain the more complicated laws of physics to you ohhh plane! Look a plane! Help!
He's actually randomly developed a fear of said planes, and when he hears one he bolts towards us and demands to be picked up. As he now weighs 20 stone (at least), this is rather wearing. We have no idea where this plane-phobia sprang from. As far as we knew he loved planes better than anything else (apart, perhaps, from lumps of butter and extra thick cream. No fear of them developing, it seems.)
Anyway. I'm not here to talk about Lumpy! No! And I'm not going to put any pictures up. Because I'm crap, and haven't managed to get any onto my computer for the last year or so, and anyway I'm writing this at work, so shhhhhhhh.
I'm here to talk about me. And my shameful problem.
Are you ready?
Have you seen that 'Embarrassing Bodies' programme on TV? It's going to be like that. I hope you've had your tea already. (Was it nice? Did you have sausages? I like sausages.)
You see, there's this green, oozy stuff. And it's a funny shape. And there are kumquats dropping out. At least they look like kumquats. And lemmings. Just swarms and swarms of lemmings.
You see why I haven't been writing? You see?
No, actually, my real problem is far more bizarre and embarrassing than that. Deep breath....
I'm already looking forward to Christmas.
There. I've said it.
I know it's September and Christmas is still three months away (just three months!! Squeeeee! Start spraying things gold, dousing mixed fruits with brandy, and attacking holly bushes! NOW!!!). I know it's ridiculous. I know that I'll get myself all worked up and by the time the bloody random day in late December actually rolls around I'll be a dribbling wreck with a tattered piece of tinsel hanging out of my mouth mumbling 'Silent Night' and weeping tears of pure glitter. But I still do it. Every. Single. Year.
And every single year, in early September, I tell myself I won't do it. I will wait, like every other normal person, and not even begin to think about the festive wonderment until December. I will rein myself in, and focus on other things, like Lumpy, and autumn, and rain, and the ever darkening nights, and the death of everything green around me... and, oh look, baubles! Pretty, sparkly baubles! Stockings! Present-buying as a competitive sport! Gratuitous calorie consumption! Mulled anything! Comfort and joy!
It keeps me going, you see. Through those utterly grim and dismal days when summer holidays are nothing but sand found lurking in your shoes, and you don't see the sun for weeks on end, and when you do it's only on TV. And it just gets darker and darker and darker in the mornings and the evenings until there's literally no day left. Once September is here, it's basically just death all the way to March, with its spring and joy and lambs with daffodils coming out of their bottoms.
So I need that Pagan festival to get me through it all, to remind me that life isn't actually over, and that we shall all be redeemed with the giving of expensive presents, unusual liquers, 25 hours of television a day, and ill-advised puddings. Because that's what life's about, when you really think about it, isn't it?
We were always pretty big on Christmas in my family. We were extravagant present-givers and big fans of gluttony and recreational alcoholism, so frankly it was right up our street. And for a long time, I genuinely believed everyone loved it as much as we did. What was not to love? Then, my first year at university, my newly acquired best friend declared, in all seriousness and without a hint of eye-rolling irony, that she hated Christmas.
She hated Christmas? What was this sacrilege and blasphemy?? I barked out an incredulous laugh, and pushed her down the stairs. Then began, quietly, to cry. So, not everyone liked spending a week holed up with their relatives playing endless games of Monopoly and drinking pints of Baileys? Who knew?
This rocked my world, for a brief period. I considered disenfriending this person. After all, our fundamental beliefs were so different. How could there possibly be any future to our friendship? But her room was always warmer than mine, and she looked after me when I was incapably hungover, and we wee-wee-d ourselves laughing over the abuse of our tutors and the horrors of the food in hall (Fish various! Provincial eggs! Unidentified intestinal stew!), so I decided to keep her, despite her heathen nature.
I also considered forsaking Christmas, and pretending to hate it like all the cool kids. But I couldn't do it. I longed for an advent calendar, cheesy jingly music on the radio, a selection box, snowmen, reindeer, sleigh rides, and all that bollocks. I tried to deny my yearnings, but I couldn't. Any pervert would understand.
So I gave in. And have been giving in ever since.
And Lumpy? Well, he's just a long-term plan for prolonging and intensifying this Chrimbo-mania. Cos it's all about the kiddies, really, isn't it? This year, I think, we can begin the real indoctrination into the ways of Santa-love. He has understanding enough to become a fully fledged member of the cult, yet is still young enough to provide no resistance. And it means I have a perfectly valid excuse for spending more than twice my annual income on stocking-filling tat, watching awful elf-ridden films for the 87th time, and playing back-to-back Wizzard from now till January.
Ho, ho, ho.
