Beryl
floated the always-dreaded but always-necessary Christmas conversation on
Sunday. It didn’t bother me too much because I’ve already been through the
trauma of working out December work rotas for 4 different groups of employees,
but I could see the ‘Oh, God’ look flit across the faces of both Philippa and
Ted. I think Beryl’s determined to have a big one this year because she’s been
so limpy for so long that she’s lost her place in the world as a woman who
caters for everyone. Don’t have a go at me, feminists, this is all accepted
fact by all those who know her, including herself. Nothing gives her greater
pleasure than spending three weeks planning a big meal, three days preparing
it, three hours cooking it and then three minutes serving it to as many people
as she can cram into whichever given space she is serving it in. With a
knackered knee, her ability to do all that has been limited. Now she is ‘fixed’
she’s ready to climb back on the catering horse and serve up a good’un for half
the population of East Anglia.
It’s
difficult for us to commit to anything, of course, because Philippa is due to
give birth sometime around Christmas, but we’ve said we’ll go and see them on
Boxing Day if we can. Bloody Hell – just typing ‘due to give birth’ has given
me a shudder of panic. Every time I think I’ve cracked my lack of confidence
about becoming a parent, something happens that makes me go all weak and
useless all over again. I’ll be glad when this baby arrives because then I can
stop worrying about what might happen when the baby arrives.
RC 23-10-18
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