Christmasticated

I wish they’d shut up. I was trying to watch the television that Mrs Williams had laid siege to for the last six weeks and all I could hear was her laughing like a schoolgirl in the kitchen. I know we all get old, given the chance. Sadly at the moment, I’m feeling fairly intolerant towards the elderly and this is almost exclusively the fault of my vintage lodger and her new friend. I am not a creature of routine. The hour of my awakening differs every day as does the flow of my waste and my feeding times. For this reason alone the prospect of infirmity fills me with despair.
Let me describe the best part of her day. Glenys gets up with the wood pigeons at five-thirty every morning. She makes tea and proceeds to scoff half a loaf of her beloved toast. The effort of her consumption forces her horizontal onto the sofa for the next hour as she briefly watches breakfast news. Her hand slides off her nightgowned belly and onto the carpet where Zac licks her buttery fingers as she sleeps. What she dreams one can only guess. By half seven she is fully dressed and ready for a full day of televisual retail therapy which lasts until the Australian soap hour when she bolts back the second half of the toasted loaf and washes it down with more tea. She leaves the house at four o’clock and returns at nine in the evening only to go straight to bed without a word. I don’t know where she goes and frankly she’s annoyed me to the point where I can’t even be bothered to take an interest.
As far as I’m concerned, Christmas is a bitch with its back legs broken and the prospect of spending it with Mrs Williams seemed less than thrilling. You could smell her excitement of the saccharine season of forgetfulness on her hair. Then Mr Konstantin arrived. He had dropped off a new remote control since she had worn out the old one along with the telephone she had sucked all the juice out of. I heard them talking in the kitchen, they had just worked out that they had been to school together. And there was me thinking that Mr Konstantin came from Hungarczechloslavnia.
“My wife died years ago. I miss her now and again, well I miss her cooking.”
“You look like you could do with a good meal. Will you be spending Christmas on your own Mr Konstantin?”
“Call me Robert. Yes unfortunately so. My son, ah my son, who knows where he is?” Mr K looked round the corner of the kitchen and I caught his eye. He nodded and smiled and I wasn’t sure why.
“You must come to us for Xmas, and call me Glenys.” My day was getting better. The thought of playing Scrabble with these two was enough to make me swallow a Steradent. Still it was nice to think that it is still possible to make new friends at the age of seventy-nine, even if they are old ones. “That’s alright isn’t it dear?” This time her head poked round the corner and smiled. She had never asked my permission for anything before.

***

The heat generated in a bungalow by three adults, a nervous dog and an oven are roughly akin to that of the nuclear power station you can see from kitchen window. Zac scuttled across the laminate like a duck on ice each time Mr Konstantin’s walking stick fell to the floor, slapping it like a ruler hits a schoolboy’s palm. It wasn’t long before he took refuge in his bed and I could hardly blame him. Our guest had arrived at midday and between him and Mrs Williams began drinking the bottle of Advocaat that he had brought with him. They chatted about their old school days and all the dead people they had in common.
“Do you remember Arthur Davies?” Mr Konstantin topped up the glasses. “Tall boy, face like a trout, father was the tailor at the top of town.”
“Why yes, I do believe I do. He took me to the pictures once.”
“Well he’s dead.”
“What about Irene Mason?”
“Dead.”
“Tony Partridge?”
“Long time dead.”
“Do you two know anyone who is still alive?” I couldn’t help myself.
“When you get to be as old as we…” I switched off.
By the time Christmas dinner began, the end couldn’t come soon enough. I hope I’m not being cruel or unnecessarily unkind but I’d much rather endure leprosy than watch and the aged eat. The loose lips, the bovine mastication and the dribbling gravy collaborate to make me retch and I swear that there is a game of footsy going on under the table.

***

Eventually we get to the presents. I have no right to be disappointed since, as usual, I am not expecting a thing in the way of a gift. I am therefore surprised and strangely disappointed when Glenys hands me a gift.
“This is just a little something to say thank you for putting me up.”
“Ha, you mean putting up with you.” Mr Konstantin jumps in and they both begin laughing.
“Thanks I say. What is it?”
“Unwrap it and find out.” I strange at the badly gift wrapped present and carefully pick at the tape showing far too much respect for the cheap paper. I expose the gift. It is partly ceramic, partly metal and utterly tasteless. Two dolphins garnish the sides.
“What is it?” I say as I finally hold the object in my hands.
“It’s a dolphin oil burner.” I notice the small bottle of oil nestled in the crucible and pick it up and shake it.
“And this dolphin oil, what’s it supposed to do?”
“It’s supposed to relax you, like when you go swimming with them.”
“And the smell their burning fat does that?” I put it to one side noticing that Mr Konstantin was trying to hide his smile.

***
It was getting late, even the television was getting bored. The two wrinkled bags of giggling skin on the sofa had almost reached the sugary dregs of the bottle of yellow goo and it had almost got to the point where both of them had to try and pee every ten minutes. It was like they had a rota. This was another crucial reminder to smoke copious amounts of marijuana when you get older – forget those prostate problems. The phone rang in desperation. It was my savoury saviour, Beth.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Chewing chocolate.” She didn’t get it, few people did.
“Wanna meet up? I got your present.” Two in one day, this was a record.