Christmas Party 2005

In some fit of “It’s Christmas and it’s family” I decide we should all go to the Christmas party at the home. My son’s unfettered facial expression was a caricature of my husband’s disguised reluctance. But I had my redcoat head on, we’d go and we’d have a good time – it was family after all. I got Ellie dressed in her angel costume, I put on my good shoes, Mark and Sean got smartly dressed and we went. Not a lot of conversation in the car on the way there, as you might expect, apart from my little sunshine ray, my little Ellie, chirpily burbling away in her car seat.

There was a magician. He wasn’t very good. In fact, he was dire, but you couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. His sleight of hand wasn’t even good enough to fool the demented and Lily kept giving the game away on each and every trick with increasing vehemence and profanity. His last trick was a card trick and summoned a “It’s the Jack of Hearts ye daft cunt, I saw you put it at the back. Away hame, yer shite, we’re auld no fuckin’ stupid”. Concisely put really. I’ve always admired the way Scots people – myself included – can say shite. Not shit which sounds the same in every accent but a well timed, well sing-songily pronounced ‘shite’ expresses so much more than ‘shit’.

There’s food, and it some of it’s ok, if you block the memory of Bruce pissing all over the Halloween food from your mind. I’ve overfed my family – unbeknownst to them – to avoid them wanting to eat much. But I try bits and pieces and fight the urge to drink the cheap sherry. Mark entertains himself with the crackers, forcing everyone he’s not terrified of to pull a cracker with him, despite the poor return by way of plunder. He’s not as scared today, it’s the evening so the residents are more subdued – the afternoons are the most lively, the most vocal are at their most vocal, the drooling drool more, and the shufflers still have enough energy to shuffle around. We leave, a couple of staff notice us going early – “You’ll miss Santa! Just take the bairns presents – it’s part of the ticket price anyway. Did you get a drink? Enough sandwiches? See you tomorrow then doll, night night!” . When will people learn, my children are not bairns, they are weans. But looking round the room at the decaying people, with their party hats askew, party blowers drooping from their lips and their manic grinning relatives eyeing each other with “how long do we need to stay” eyes, it’s not a party, it’s not a family event, it’s not a celebration, it’s grotesque. Obscene. “Do you want to stay for the carols?”. I don’t think so ? Let’s celebrate the birth of our Lord? Born to us is a saviour? No thanks. We're auld no fucking stupid.