Some sage once wrote: For children, Christmas is everything that might be given; for an adult, Christmas is everything we have lost.
Me and Fionnuala have a joint bank account. I have heard all the pros and cons, and about how your banking is your independence, but as a stay-at-home dad I couldn’t bear plaguing her for money all the time. And she’s good about all that and not overly forensic. But nevertheless, there are times when you need a secret stash.
Christmas is a prime example. Among the litany of challenging festive fiscal matters, getting your wife’s present is terrain a mountain goat would need crampons for.
This year I knew what to buy, even though it was a bit of a homer present. A bean-to-cup coffee maker. She would love it as much as me and I was planning on a refurbished, decent one so it would have a ‘wow’ built in. I even knew how I was going to wrap it.
I ordered it via one of her brothers; he paid for it and it was going to be delivered to his house. My timing was good but you can never be sure and so it proved. The day it was supposed to arrive I messaged him but no joy. It wasn’t a disaster – it gave me more time to sort out the cash – and when it hadn’t appeared two days and two messages later, we left it that he was to call me as soon as it landed. “You’ll be the first to know, Fabien.”
But Christmas crept closer and still no sign. It was like Waiting for Godot but without the laughs.
I had plenty of distractions of course; chief of which was the upcoming primary school concert. It was to take place on the Friday evening and rehearsals were constant in our house. Imogen was performing with the P4s (a version of Shakin’ Stevens’ Merry Xmas Everyone) and Fiadh with the P2s (a wriggly worm song) and I was demented with it all. They never stopped.
The day before the concert, the principal waved me over at the school gates. She was a sprightly, not unattractive woman with an unusual, one-leg-shorter-than-the-other gait.
“Morning, Fabien. Your children are just adorable. I’m sure you’re dying to see them on stage on the 23rd.”
“They’ve rehearsed that much I could understudy for them.”
She liked my joke and even gave me a sort of inappropriate cuddle while other mums at the gate pretended not to look.
“Well hopefully that won’t be needed.”
The next day, three days out from Christmas Eve, there was still no sign of Fionnuala’s espresso machine. Seemingly it was dispatched and delivered to some warehouse somewhere and no-one knew exactly where. They would get back to me.
The pressure was beginning to make me feel maudlin. Fionnuala sent me a to-do list that was undoable and the stack of toys hidden in the loft in the shed filled me with sorrow.
The next day I began to brace myself for the huge nothingness that was to occur. The weather augmented my gloominess and Fionnuala stared at me.
“What is the matter with you, Fabien? You have a face like a Bundoran loaf.”
“Nothing” I sighed. “I just can’t wait ‘till all this meaninglessness is over.”
Among the litany of challenging festive fiscal matters, getting your wife’s present is terrain a mountain goat would need crampons for
I had resigned myself to the squirming and apologies and I knew Fionnuala would laugh and downplay the lack of present, but in her heart would she not be disappointed?
But then, the next evening, two hours before the concert, an unknown number rang and I answered with zero expectations.
It was a DPD warehouse 15 miles away and there was a parcel for me. It had got delivered to the wrong address and I could collect now. They would be closed tomorrow, Christmas Eve.
I cannot describe the joy that surged through my shallow heart. I pulled a sweet move by dropping the gang at the school and pretended to go and park, before racing to the depot and back in time to collect them all.
“What a show!” I half lied. “Pity I had to stand at the back.” I kissed everyone and, like George Bailey, I knew that no man is a failure who has friends.
“Now let’s have the bestest Christmas ever!”