A cat is not for Christmas…
My belief in Santa is starting to fade. After writing a beautifully crafted and evocative letter to him explaining my behaviour of late it seems he chose to point blank ignore me.
There was no cat under the tree…
Twin boy summarised the situation well by explaining ‘all that shouting has finally caught you in the bum and you are on the bad list.’
He said these words with glee on his face as he poked food through the bars of his brand new hamster.
Yup, the hamster I specifically requested Santa to knock off the list.
Now in the evening when my children sleep and I fire up the laptop to earn a crust I get the accompanying sound of an incessant squeak of a wheel that “Maddy the hamster” likes to do spin classes in from dusk till dawn.
Irritating doesn’t quite cover it…
The hamster has also brought out a new obsessive disorder in me. I need to check thrice daily to see if the little mite is still breathing. It would seem I am scarred from the age of eleven when I looked after the school hamster during the holidays and the bastard thing died on me. I spent hours clutching it to a radiator dripping bourbon whiskey down its neck until my mum prised my fingers from his stiff little body and told me it was no good.
He was only six months old….
I didn’t want her, but goddamnit this hamster will survive.
Plus she is rather cute…
So Twin Boy got his hamster, Twin Girl got her Barbie bride and BB got her bike.
This is a direct appeal to Santa, or any other man who lives in my house.
Belated Christmas presents are fine. I accept the cat is a no go (he may eat the hamster), I see Robbie is sold out… But rumour has it Bruce Springsteen tickets are on sale and I really want to go.
I promise I will be good this year!