Dear C,
Thank you for your kind words of support and advice on how to deal with the oldballandchain. Must say, your recipe for guerilla warfare does sound devious in the extreme, and may actually require me to transplant myself to Jamaica with the twins immediately, in order to implement stage one of The Plan. May I borrow one or two of your nannies for the duration, as it's been years since I actively engaged with my children and I find it's generally better to ease back into such things? Once I have their full and undivided attention, I am quite sure, as you say, that the oldballandchain will quickly fall into line. Either that or the three of them may prefer to move house in the middle of the night, in which case I'd be sure to pursue them – in a year or two, you understand.
So sorry to hear that your return to the same carribbean resort for the second time in less than a year has turned into Paradise Lost. I know that some people might judge you for whining about the lack of hot water and oppressive requirement to have fun in what sounds, on the surface, like a tropical heaven, but believe me, I have been there, done it, and even have the Jamaican relatives (legacy of a holiday romance) to prove it.
It may sound wonderful to have two nannies, a maid and a scuba instructor attending to one's every need (of which I know we have many), but in my experience, at least, it is done with such a palpable air of resentment that one almost feels one would be better off doing everything oneself. Note the word 'almost'. Much as I like to boast of my toilet-cleaning credentials, it's not a skill I plan to revive any time soon, even as the inevitable financial apocalypse looms. Thank God my housekeeper here in the Village doesn't speak English and appears not to have read Marx.
As for the oppressive requirement to frolic and have fun, I'm afraid you and I simply weren't designed for the season of good will, dear C. Our strength appears to lie in dealing with humdrum routine: calling the plumber; getting the cherubs' teeth cleaned; religiously attending our twice weekly Reformer's PIlates' class (and people say we lack faith!). Our shining moment comes in remembering to call our mother-in-laws on their birthdays, even it is through gritted teeth, and renewing our alarm permits with the Village Hall once a year, even if they can't be bothered to keep a record of such transactions.
All this goes by largely unappreciated by our nearest and dearest, let alone the wider world, which is why we end up picking fights over who does more dishes and why the oldballandchain probably insists on getting me the same new bathrobe every Christmas, rather than the Prada pumps whose specifications I basically tattooed onto his forehead the other day.
But rest assured, dear C. I notice and appreciate all that you do, and know that once December 26 rolls around, you and I will rise again. In the meantime, my friend, have that waiter bring you another margarita and allow me to raise a toast to you and yours as you languish on the beach.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good fight!
P.
