4. L.Bear-Traditional-Xmas
Little-Bear realized with the help from his self-improvement books that financial-success was not everything, and that traditional-values were the key to one’s status and wellbeing. He said this to us, and suggested we could start with Xmas. Being old hippies, Marvella and I, like many people, had indeed let things slip from those big-events of the past when we were younger, though the memories remain:
Like my dad sharpening the knives to cut the turkey, only to cut himself deeply in the hand, and pretending everything was OK as a trail-of-blood followed him around. It’s not that he did this the once, he did it a number-of-times the only difference being what he had been drinking (sherry, wine, Guinness etc.), where he had sliced himself, how deeply, and how-long it took to stem the blood-flow. However, to me it was instant Karma – his faux man-of-the-woods externalizations confronted by the cold reality of blood, and lots-of-it. He never did accept his limitations in this department, and my mum did tell me later he once managed to pepper one of co-shooters in the leg with shot-gun pellets. Deep shame for mum – very funny though!
Or the afternoon-walks in the winter-sunshine trying to find a pub that was open. These days bars and pubs are always open, but back in nostalgia-times you had to explore to get sozzled. I remember once in London/Barnes having found once a pub that was open on Christmas evening, a rare event at that time. There was just one problem, the landlord at the door vetting his clientele with the question “are you regulars?” to which we could genuinely reply “yes we were indeed regulars”, having visited it regularly once a year on Christmas day for the past three years – you can’t get more regular than that, can you?
So, we all set about preparing the perfect Christmas. We had the tree which was a white LED affair imitating a silver-birch-tree – far nicer than a tacky conifer. The TV schedule was confirmed (king’s speech, followed by the Great-Escape and a Morecombe-and Wise retrospective). Traditional food was laid-in for the dinner; roast-potatoes, parsnips, burnt-tofu etc. (were all veggies, even Bear). Christmas-crackers – expensive ones as Bear didn’t like anything tacky.
The presents were organized by the Bear (the bright-red-envelopes stuffed with cash for him and hung on the tree, with a minimum of ten-pounds in each one). Any additional presents were to be put at the base of the tree, but again, they had to be expensive. He surprised us by saying he would be placing some presents for us as well. Was his innate selfishness morphing into something more mainstream?
On Christmas-day itself, things got off to a traditional start. Bear got-up in the early-hours and sneaked to the Christmas-tree to check-out his presents. In our family, presents were opened after lunch (a very Edwardian-thing of learning delayed-gratification). Of course, this was obviated, then and now, by the act of cheating or near-cheating (e.g. rattling the present to reveal its internal-structure, smelling them, etc.).
This was followed by a light-breakfast, and the long preparations for lunch, then by lunch itself. Traditional amounts of alcohol were consumed (bucket-loads) alongside the roast-extravaganza. We were so full we decided to keep the sweet (cheese-cake) until after the opening of the presents and the prescribed Christmas-day TV (King’s speech and the Great-Escape). So, to the presents on-and-under the tree we went.
Bear took-over the commentary; “ten-pounds, and another ten-pounds, a twenty-pound note, and so on”. As the last red-envelope was emptied he rushed to his giant-calculator to do the arithmetic, and announced the result of “one-hundred-and-ten-pounds, a personal record”. He then opened his other presents under the tree: “Woolly-hat, practical”. “Forbes rich-list guide, inspired” and “a well-wrapped Orange, mmm”. Bear finished with “now for my presents to you – I can open them for you if you want”.
Bear has many skills, but wrapping presents isn’t one of them (it’s the paws you see - they are made for opening things, not wrapping things). Anyway, the pink-newsprint of the FT (financial-times) made a pretty sight. Marvella opened her present, a thin oblong shape which immediately transformed itself into a book. The title? “One-Hundred Bed-Time-Stories for Bears”. I followed, and my title? “Another Hundred Bed-Time-Stories for Bears”. At this point I found I had automatically grabbed Bear by the throat to strangle him, but Marvella quickly intervened “It’s what we always wanted, she lied”. Bear was happy, and I suppose we were too. It’s the thought that counts, we told ourselves unconvincingly.
After that we focused on the TV. The opening credits went well, but it was when those stereotypical good old British-type actors did their pitch that the truth set-in. Some traditions and films “die” because they have a sell-by-date. They might have been good for their time, but tastes change. The thought of a Morecombe-and Wise retrospective, coupled with the shame of remembering I actually really-liked them, was just too much for me and spurred me to speech:
“Anyone fancy some Kraut-Trance, how about Schiller”. We looked at each-other and all three of us nodded. “We could also share some of Granny’s period-pain-tincture”, I added. So, we did, Schiller on the wide-screen, and a tea-spoon each of Granny’s cure-you-all. After an hour Bear mysteriously did a back-flip, and continued watching upside-down, but still completely happy. Granny knows best, even in a modern age. Now for that cheesecake!