On hating Christmas (again)

It is that time of year, again. The central heating is on (did I admit I blinked first? I have now.) The air is cold, the cat is bad tempered, the Slug is drunk, and shop is over-full (of crap you'll only buy on the promise of a skin full of half price pre-made mulled wine), prices are up, essentials are down and everyone is fed up with absolutely everyone else.

At the best of times we can't manage a price change over smoothly, but since the guru was, er, retired following a restructure things have frankly gone to hell in a hand cart. The Dodo given the job of filling Guru's boots was not given training, has no initiative and less gumption. Today when we phoned to ask why after the best part of a week such a large proportion of the offer lines are sitting in the warehouse because they're mis-priced he burst into tears.

So now we feel like a coven. More heavy sighing.

To make ourselves feel better we snipe at one another. We snipe at the shop floor staff. They snipe back. Sue goes off her trolly; she and the Maltese Terrier have a slanging match that was probably heard all over town let alone the store itself.

The customers get into the spirit of the season. The 'english' gene drives me insane and the english to an wholly irrational fear of being seen to be civil to anyone providing service. In the english mind service = servitude. Therefore, for the english, there is no honour in providing service.

So on the one hand the english generally cannot bring themselves to provide good service, as though honour bound to do the least possible as a subversive show of independence. On the other hand they cannot bring themselves to receive good service, for fear of being seen by others to have voluntarily sunk to the same level as those providing it.

This is all very tedious to an outsider, until you find yourself confronted by a surly vindictive shop worker; but bear in mind the kind of customer he or she is most familiar with.

The closer we get to christmas the more excessive this seems to get, as though the fuel of consumption desperation aggravates the general condition of englishness. We're not quite at the 'trollies at ten paces' stage yet, but it is still October. No adjudications have yet been required over ownership of the last pot of brandy butter.

We've all these seasonal delights to come. I have hateful stuck here in the freezing cold away from family who hate me anyway for being here dramas to come. No cards because I live here rather than there as though this is something I want and have done to up upset them.

I'm miserable already.

How many days until this whole bloody awful business is over for another year?

PS That's Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. After last night's stupid unwelcome offering of mulled wine he's shown some sensitivity tonight and taken himself off. So I'm going for my longest stretch in months tomorrow night. Why though, is it, I've woken up with a really thick head the past two mornings. That just isn't fair when I'm being such a good girl!