Country life
Shop horror, tree trauma
Leanda de Lisle
Australians rub papaya fat on sunburnt skin. In other parts of the world papaya flesh is prized for its contraceptive quali- ties. Here, papaya enzymes are used to dehydrate prolapsed discs. I wish I could tell you that I only eat the wretched things — but no. I've just had the disc treatment. The enzymes were delivered into my back through an epidural needle. Since which I've been told to lie flat to avoid dislodging the enzymes, which otherwise might hurtle up my spine and do heaven knows what. Turn my brain into a fruit salad, probably.
However, I can't say I've found the enforced bed rest a particular trial It has provided me with the perfect opportunity to catch up with all my Christmas shopping. Like all sensible country people I get the bulk of everyone's presents from mail- order catalogues. If I can't let my fingers do the walking, I get a London shop assis- tant to do it for me. At this time of year, I thank God for the big city stores which take credit card orders over the telephone and even gift wrap items for you. Wouldn't it be marvellous to be able to organise the whole of Christmas from bed?
The first thing I would do, if I could, is persuade one of those shop-window design- ers to come up and do all my Christmas decorations. I love glitter and tinsel, but all that glorious kitsch loses something of its magic when you are the one struggling to stick perspex pendants on the mantlepiece with lumps of blue tack. If I close my eyes I can see a decorator with a white and silver polystyrene reindeer under each arm. 'Dar- ling, these would look wonderful in' the hall,' he tells me, 'and I think the garden- er's wreath could benefit from a few sequins.' I nod happily. As I live in the country, I have no roman- tic illusions about how nice it would be to have tasteful, natural things with which to decorate the house. Fake holly always has just the right number of red berries and it bends to fit perfectly the top of picture frames. While the real McCoy shrivels up after about a week and drops off whatever you have perched it on. As for Christmas trees, I'm obliged to have a balding pine, that's been grown on the estate. Which means I have to spend hours wrapping tin- sel round its trunk while being stabbed by thousands of razor sharp needles. How I long for a big, fat, fluffy, plastic tree. Although it would be even better if we could do without a Christmas tree altogeth- er. In every household I know decorating this focal point of family togetherness leads to the annual family row.
It usually begins with the untangling of the fairy lights. Husbands always blame their wives for the knots that fairy lights get into. He shouts at her. She gets hotter and hotter trying to control her temper in front of the children, but allows herself a look that says, 'If you were a real man you would be able to fix the dud lights.' Then it's time to put up the baubles. The chil- dren are only allowed to hang unbreakable metal stars and the toy soldiers which denote where they are going to sit under the tree on Christmas day. But they fight for the privilege of handing the most expensive glass bauble to their parents. Then just when they are about to do so, the metal spikes come out of the top of it and it smashes to the floor.
Nothing is said, but the children are left in no doubt that they are clumsy idiots. By the end of the afternoon no one is even attempting to keep up the festive spirit and the angel is jammed on the top of the tree with such ferocity that the whole thing ends up tilted at a drunken angle. A permanent reminder of the blood, sweat and tears expended on the wretched edifice.
If you've avoided the shop horror and the tree trauma there is still Christmas lunch to cope with. But I've made a deci- sion on that score. I'm going to stay in bed and order take-away turkey tikka masala followed by mincemeat kulfi. Is that awful of me? I don't know. That's what comes of being part woman, part papaya.
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