“Ooh, looks like you’ve got a bit of a bump there too!” said my sister smiling at me. I walked into the room where my pregnant other sister was sipping a cup of tea.
“Only yours is probably a food baby,” she went on.
The air hung like the stillness before a storm. But I chose to find it funnier than thunderous, and burst out laughing. At least for that particular moment.
Before long, my Dad was putting his foot in it, and a third sister (for I have three) was regaling us with hilarious tales from the travelling community, and her fellow professional conspiracy theorists. We’re an unusual family in lots of respects.
I drank my tea and slowly and silently persuaded myself to get back to the gym. A food baby indeed! I could excuse myself by saying it’s a ‘tight-fitting’ t-shirt, but of course, that’s like saying it’s clouds that cause a shadow. A plate of doughnuts went round, and I shook my head and gripped my mug with both hands.
I’d have included some sort of early-warning system, I think, if I’d been designing the human body and it’s response to doughnuts. Like, your hands turn blue if you’ve had enough sugar. Or, if your stomach says no and your eyes widen to a yes, maybe your mouth could just clamp shut until your nose smells a carrot or something.
Of course, the Real Designer is much cleverer than me. And anyway, what kind of world would it be if all we could do everyday was nod silently at each other, then shake blue hands as we exchange bags of carrots? Ha! Like the Jumblies.
Anyway, we were there, together, my family and I, for the first phase of this year’s Secret Santa - the bit where you put your list in the hat, then pull out somebody else’s. I’ve commented before on how my Mum somehow works out who’s got whom - this year she’s right on it; it’s like a special Mum-Super-Power.
I’ve got someone who at least has made their request clear, and hasn’t just put “Amazon Vouchers”.
I too, thought up three nice things for my list. Though as usual, the best bit of this whole process is seeing the reactions of people to their Secret Santas across the room of flying wrapping paper, on Boxing Day. None of us really want anything, other than to make each other smile at Christmas, I guess.
We’re sweet like that, like The Waltons. Only one of us is a zany conspiracy theorist who lives with travellers, one keeps saying the wrong thing, one’s pregnant, and the other needs to stop writing, and remind himself to go to the gym first thing tomorrow morning.
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