In which I am exposed to (but unconvinced by) seasonal gaiety.
In a week where seasonal activities portent the creeping fingers of Christmas, I resist the unbridled seasonal madness of others and cling to the last vestiges of autumn. This is how the week happened…
Monday:
Having taken a week off work to emotionally convalesce, I spent today catching up with scores of admin and completing forms long overdue. Bloated on the joy of having completed tasks which have been calcifying at the back of my conscience for weeks, I drifted into a state of dreadful lethargy and remained thus.
Tuesday:
Free from the obligations of the working week, I joined my aunt and grandfather for a trip to Penrith to hit up all the bougie supermarkets that I vibe with, particularly Booths and Cranstons. Carried away by the gorgeous country vibes, I perused the turnips and loose organic carrots with great interest and purchased, among other things, a half dozen oysters. On return home I enjoyed the oysters with several Bloody Maries and carried forwards into the evening. Later, when I was well nourished from the oysters and buzzed from the vodka, I helped Derry to bleach his “tips” and can say with gusto that a future in hairdressing is robustly not for me.
Wednesday:
I spent the early half of the day drifting, ambient and spectre-like, along the backways and lanes of the countryside surrounding the house in a state of deepest contemplation. When the day was spent, I commended myself to Moffat where I was life modelling at the last minute for a drawing group. The evening was pleasant, but during the short break I received communication from Derry to advise that in the making of a steak-frites he had somehow hoyed off the ball of his thumb with the mandolin grater, so the final forty-five minute pose was held with great agitation and concern. The steak frites, when we got to it, was a delight.
Thursday:
Today I spent a day in the deepest of agitations and miseries, before storming off to the gym in the late afternoon. Committed to my book club, I spent the entire session listening to an audiobook version of Penelope Douglas’s Birthday Girl, careering between excitement and horror. My strength of opinion on the subject matter led me to conceptualise a new content stream for the blog predicated on book reviews from both book clubs: those from the private book club of Mrs. Katie Boyce will be paired with a white wine and thoroughly reviewed, while those from the Dougie book club will be paired with a red wine and reviewed. Therefore and hereafter, these book clubs will be internally referred to as “white wine book club” and “red wine book club”. No further clarification is necessary.
Friday:
Animated by the spirit of adventure, I headed out with mummy and papa for a marvellous road trip south, and across the border. With no clear destination in mind, we ambulated from place to place before eventually arriving at Lowther Castle in just enough time for a pot of tea and a beef sandwich.
When I returned to our country of residence I was enticed out to the township of Dumfries by my sisters. Merrily we ambulated between the public houses of the town, revelling in tomfoolery involving a cowboy hat and settling the evening with a deeply competitive music quiz in a craft beer bar.
Saturday:
I spent the day in a state of ennui preparing myself for the evenings outing with my father to watch the ice hockey in Dumfries.
The evening did not disappoint! I had developed and nurtured a great love for the sport when living in Sweden as a way of trying to curry favour with the fighter pilot ice hockey enthusiast I had become romantically involved with, and this somehow developed into an actual affection for the game. Although our local team were beaten in the extra time allocated due to a draw, the evening was pleasantly enjoyed and awoke in me a latent wish to star as the main character in a gay Hallmark Christmas rom-com about an ice hockey team.
After the game I headed out for a second night in the town with “the siblings ™️” which involved many cocktails but robustly less cowboy hat.
Sunday:
Delicate from the drink taken last night, I steeled myself before visiting my mother’s mobile bar at the Lochmaben Christmas lights switch on.
My role at these events, self ascribed, is to attract custom by being seen to be making purchases and drinking the produce of the bar. I intend for this to appear glamorous in a sort of “I do declare, this prosecco is marvellously festive” sort of a way. Sadly, the effect is rather more of me loitering behind the bar, drinking Prosecco in the back alley and making fraught, distant eye contact with the townsfolk like a desperate Victorian prostitute.
After a successful evening attempting to connect with the spirit of the festive season and achieving something of a lukewarm sense of seasonal gaiety, I retired to the newly opened Chinese to feast and reflect on how despairingly Christmas everything is becoming robustly too early in the calendar.