Illness and hospitals never sleep, and my sister has to work tomorrow, which is Christmas day. My niece is minding children until 4:30 this afternoon. That leaves us with no choice but to have Christmas lunch a day early and call it "Christmas Eve dinner."
I arrive at my sister's house in my nephew's car at around 6p.m. I could tell you all about the spiral-cut, honey-roasted ham; the boneless turkey breast roast; the endless bowl of prawns and red American cocktail sauce (in a nutshell, ketchup mixed with ground horseradish - it's delicious); the truckload of cheesy potatoes; the green beans in cream of mushroom sauce; the trays of cookies; the sticky toffee pudding I made this afternoon and thrust upon my unsuspecting family at dessert time. I could tell you all about that, but I'd rather tell you about the bathrobe.
A few days ago, I was wandering the shopping mall and found a terry Polo bathrobe. It is the bomb, and I fully intended to buy one after Christmas. But my sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew pooled 20 bucks a piece and bought it for me. I opened it and nearly cried. There is no reason for them to spend their hard-earned money, for which they have so many essential uses, on a piece of luxurious ephemera such as this plush, poncey bathrobe that a self-centred, self-responsible and sometimes selfish, single, gay, quasi-bon vivant twat uncle who lives a near-fantasy life in merry old London can and should buy for himself.
There is no reason except that they love me and want to make me happy.
I do my best to contain my emotions, but it's clear I'm happier to receive this silly robe than I have been to receive any present I can remember. I feel important, respected, accepted and very simply loved for the Sex and the City wannabe, inane continent-hopping reflection of my father that I am. (Not that that's the worst thing I could be.)
All that's left to say is, thanks, guys. I love you all very much, and I'll think of you every time I wear my new robe, which will be, and this is no exaggeration, every stinking day until its tatters falls off my slumping, aged, liver spot-stained shoulders.
Now all I need is a pipe and slippers and a Bassett hound and I'm set for a stylish entry into middle age.
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