Country life
Nightmare time
Leanda de Lisle
This is the first year I've had night- mares about Christmas presents. These dreams didn't have any kind of storyline attached. They were like snapshots. A close department store filled with golden parcels, my brother-in-law's face when he realises I've forgotten to buy him a Christmas pre- sent, hands stuffing tiny packages into a stocking that never fills. That last one was particularly haunting.
You have to be well organised about your Christmas shopping if you live in the country. You can't rely on spotting things in shop windows on your way back from work. I used to rely on mail-order cata- logues, but this year I found I'd lost my enthusiasm for them. The advent calendars I ordered at the beginning of November didn't arrive at all, or rather they did, but not until advent was nearly over and there- after I felt increasingly anxious about what would and what wouldn't arrive before Christmas.
My present to my husband arrived three weeks before Christmas, which should have been at least one weight off my mind, but it was addressed to him and, naturally enough, he opened it. I spent the rest of the month wondering whether I dare open my own post, or whether I needed to start shopping for Peter all over again. If that wasn't enough, I've decided my children are too old for all the silly little things I used to get from the stocking-fillers catalogue.
The 12- and 10-year-olds have had sever- al years' worth of eyeballs which glow in the dark and, while the eight-year-old still cries, 'Just what I always wanted!' at what- ever he's unwrapped, his older brothers have grown more sophisticated. Their Christmas lists this year were quite specific. The ten-year-old (a Radio Four addict) wanted talking books, documentary videos about the first world war and £100 cash. His elder brother preferred computer games, combat trousers and food.
Father Christmas brought son number two an hour and 40 minutes footage of the Battle of the Somme — not exactly my idea of seasonal viewing, but there you go and son number one plenty of sweets and chocolates, which is all he understands as food. This left quite a lot of empty space in their stockings. More than enough room for £10 notes and a fistful of computer CDs, but, putting aside the fact it doesn't feel quite right giving my sons cash for Christmas, anything that end of the finan- cial scale falls into the category of the main present.
Having given due warning, I downgraded the stockings to a smaller size and I warned off any complaints by adding some enor- mous blow-up chairs. Thinking about it, this was, in a sense, the vanishing Christ- mas. Besides the shrunken stockings, we have emerged a few pets short. Brian, the groundsman, withheld his daily offer to rub Vick on my chest for just long enough to ask if his niece could have the unloved rab- bit that lived in the back yard. I was so delighted I threw in the hutch as well. I don't think the boys have noticed it's gone yet. The same cannot be said for Trigger, the hamster.
The boys really seem to have missed Trigger since Peter decided to give her a little pat on his way to bed and left her cage door open. However, I have hopes that she'll return to us once I've organised a clever enough trap for her. Either that or perhaps my parents will be bringing a new hamster with them this weekend. You see, although none of my nightmares about Christmas presents has come true, our Christmas isn't over yet. My entire family are coming to stay this weekend, armed with parcels. There's my mother, my father, my sister, her children, possibly my brother ... have I got him anything? Oh, God.
I've never flown this cheap before!'
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