This is pretty close to intolerable. Well, obviously that’s a slight exaggeration. But it’s not exactly my dream way to see in the new year and shove the old one off into the stratosphere of disappointments, put it that way. Yes, the view is pretty: the Scottish sea or whatever it is, the Forth or something, looking broody and ominous and grey beyond the window, the trees and shrubs dancing erratically. And the expansive tardis like Victorian house, with its coal fires and high ceilings surrounding me comfortingly, its grandfather and mother clocks ticking and chiming in the distance, reminds me that I am inside and not outside in the not so harsh as usual Scottish winter. But unfortunately ‘they’ are here. Them. And, to be frank, I’m ready to scream. Loudly. Right in their ears.
I know that one’s partner’s friends can often be one of the more challenging aspects of romantic bliss. And I know that my beloved isn’t exactly normal and undented himself. And I did suspect they were going to be here. But still, this year, they will be lucky to escape back to whence they came alive, unscathed or at best, slightly poisoned.
I am in fact, staying in a lunatic asylum for this hogmanay nonsense. A nice Victorian lunatic asylum with a sea view of the Forth. I can’t name names, though that would indeed be tempting. But not only are my fellows FREAKS, nudging perilously close to murder, but they are all also techy dweebs who surf the internet as if their lives depended on it. So I’m concerned that, if I named them, they could discover just how dreadful they really are which would be enough to destroy anyone. Hang on a minute… dear reader meet….
The main culprit is A or D as his real name is. God knows why everyone calls him A. I really don’t want to know. It hails back to their glory university days I suppose. Anyway, the balding little pr*ck, is ghastly. He knows everything there is to know it seems – and certainly isn’t reticent in making sure you know it. He makes sure he’s at the front of the queue at every opportunity and is about as generous and thoughtful of other people as Himler. But none of that explains his true objectionablness – the true horror that is his personality. Of course, J (my boyfriend) doesn’t see any of this. A/D is his friend. They get on. They even laugh together, which mystifies me completely as I’ve never been aware that anything funny has actually been said. But may be it’s my humour failure not theirs. Doubtful, of course. Anyway, A/D is playing Risk on his Mac Book Pro (yes, he certainly made the most of the fact he had the higher spec machine than we did). He’s playing loudly, his finger taps getting ever more irritating.
Then there’s L, who is A/D’s girlfriend. I don’t think they’ve married yet. She’s in the corner reading some short stories she took great pleasure in telling us about – just to make sure we know how unknown and special the writers she reads are. I’m sitting in ‘her’ seat by the fire. I stole it while she was out of the room and she appears to be squinting petulantly at me every now and then. She was the first in the shower. In fact, as she scrapes the last of every jar without asking, as she takes the last seat etc etc etc, she’s a bit of a cow. Like A/D it’s hard to explain just why she is so creepily annoying although she does seem full of advice, all the time, wanting to offer it out as if were sweets in the playground. Thank god she lives in Holland. But J can’t see this either. In fact I’m beginning to wonder if my beloved isn’t completely stupid!
Anyway, then there’s P. I do actually like P. He is the salt of the earth it has to be said. But poor old P seems to have melted. P is the host – the one who owns the big Victorian lunatic asylum with the sea view. The one who, at 60, has just got civil partnered to a 22 (or something) Indian man who was in need of a visa and now get can get his ungreedy little mitts on all that P possesses. But I’m sure I’m being cynical. P is a true catch, what with his knitted cardigans so greasy they shine and with holes so big they make a moth shiver in shame. I’m being harsh I know. But that’s me. Unfortunately J does see this and is upset. So upset even that last night I felt upset vicariously which isn’t like me at all. Anyway, as nice as P is, he is weird. Very weird.
Oooh, news flash! A/D has just won his game of Risk in record time. Isn’t he clever!
Anyway, back to P. P who glares at you as if he’s going to pull your teeth out with pliers if you dare to wash your mug out in his sink. When it comes to his kitchen: You must do nothing. Nothing must be out of place. Despite the fact that his giant of a house makes Chernobyll look like the tidy fairies have been hard at work. But enough about P. He is nice. Hopeless, greasy and smelly, but essentially nice (and with said nice house too).
Then there’s C. He doesn’t say much. He just sits in the corner looking like a cross between everybody’s ignored uncle at christmas and Jack Lemon (it’s uncanny, not that anyone else has spotted it yet). But that’s weird in itself isn’t it? To travel all the way from wherever he comes from to, well, say nothing apart from, mmm, nice cheese.
G and L are ok. I can cope with them. Although three/ nearly four days is asking quite a lot. They are both reading Terry Pratchett and whilst I realise jealously that half the world is reading Terry Pratchett, I can’t help but feel that there’s something unfortunate about them in their shared silence, flicking their pages over and over.
But enough. Later, either before or after, the glorious moment when 2006 is no more and 2007 sneeringly welcomes us into a stormy January, we’re all off to play ping pong with the rest of the village folk (or more weirdoes with odd habits). But I’ve got another nine hours till then. Another nine hours of torture with these wretched odd bods with the selfish, arrogant over competitive non-personalities.
Really, 2007 can only be an improvement.
