Discover from television Christmas is over. Now just war movies and adverts for holidays in the sun. Mmm. Cuba? Take six Nurofen and struggle to piece events together.
Xmas Eve. Party in posh little club. Horrified to see ex-boyfriend. "You look well," he smiles patronisingly. He is either referring to hectic booze flush, or he means I have put on weight. Introduce him to current beau, who has got hiccups. Place full of chattering classes, quaffing champagne and pontificating on New Decadence. Get drunk. Insult people and totter out, swearing to return to my "friends". Boyfriend mutters I haven't got any left. To disgust of doorman, take off impossible shoes and hobble, barefoot, through Mayfair.
Fourteen for Christmas dinner. Shopping list reads: 7 ducks; 10 crates Bud; 1oz spliff; 3 sofas. Not all guests arrive. Two stuck on Virgin trains somewhere in the Midlands. One went to retreat for people who cannot cope with Christmas. Three still asleep on sofas. Do not recognise them.
Xmas Day. Start cooking after bottle of champagne and spliff. Stuff ducks with something (later discover it was the mince pie filling) and throw in oven. Guests, desperate for food, insist on trying to help. Shove them in direction of liquor. Dimly aware of something, or someone, burning.
Omigod! Flames are shooting out of the oven. Neighbour, Cassius, wrenches extinguisher from wall and douses oven, and most of flat, with foam. Impressed. Not with Cassius, he's always cool, but bought extinguisher in the market for two quid. Never expected to use it.
Duck flambe pronounced huge success. Most of the guests have passed out anyway. Later, those still conscious gather round the tree. Present-giving is followed by crashes and crying. Several couples flounce out. Separately. Flat now full of exploding Bosnian Teletubbies and Princess Di memorabilia. Boyfriend has threatened to leave if I ever play "Candle in the wind". Have also acquired new kitten, Bullitt, present from Tatiana, "I can't never resist a waif or stray." Yes Tatiana, I've noticed.
Boxing Day. Rage at newspaper round-up of Xmas books. No mention of mine, as usual. Deen Perry has been made resident poet at doner kebab takeaway shop. Cannot face food. Give remains of feast to derelict. He is particularly taken with pudding which has 10ps buried in it.
Flat looks as though it has been nuked. Globs of foam stuck to walls, floor and ceiling. Boyfriend has risen for football. Appalled to see he is wearing new Issey Miyake T-shirt. "You aren't going to play in that, Babes?" I cry. Could have gone into retreat myself, for half of what it cost me.
Lie on floor (sofas occupied) and prepare to snooze 'til Sunday. Phone rings "'Lo Kaz, how y'doin'?" says Yasmin, "Fancy a cocktail party?".Reuse content