Is It Just Me? (21 page)

They melt. Which is, at any age, one of the saddest sights in the world. Does one go for the ‘hurry, eat it really, really quickly, gobble it fast, before it melts’ look? Or just let it go and not mind? I favour the former because I do mind, but I must look like I’m in a local ice-cream eating competition. Ursula Andress, eat your heart out.

Even a very gentle breeze will generate a miniature sandstorm at your beach station. The sand will go in your eyes. It will go on your melting ice cream, which you won’t notice because you are briefly blinded, so you will lick sand from the ice cream. The sand will also get
on
your towel, something you are at all times desperately trying to avoid. You turn over, having carefully put sun cream on and said sand sticks to your entire body. Ooh, the horrid abrasive feel. Wind then swishes some wasps in your direction. You are being dive bombed. You become a wild, sand-coated, stressy, blind, fast ice-cream-eating, wasp-swatting beast. Abort beach. Abort, abort.

I always hope that I’ve never looked more beautiful than of a hot holiday evening, but deep down I know that I’m mostly just red and covered in mosquito bites. Despite my very ‘British abroad’ look, the last time I was on holiday I decided to crack on and party. I was in Antigua; I know – exotic. I thank you. So, I went to a local party where they had steel drums and – get this – maracas. I know! If we had all been dressed in unisex party kaftans this would have been the Miranda-Land Utopia. I was maraca-ing (could that now be an official verb?) with gusto to the steel band. I was feeling pretty free, actually. I’d had a couple of rums; life was good. Then a solo guitarist came on and started playing some lovely slow tunes. Even though it wasn’t the wonderful up-tempo steel band any more, I couldn’t help but continue maraca-ing. By then it was just me and a middle-aged man who introduced himself as Ron (there’s always one), but I didn’t presume I was in his camp, oh no. I was the beautiful mysterious lady maraca-er. Trouble was, as I maraca-ed with more gusto than perhaps one should, the top of my maraca suddenly came loose and hurtled off in the direction of the guitarist. To my horror, it actually hit his strumming hand. The music stopped. Had I turned down that third rum punch, I might have been sharp enough to run and hide. But, no, the culprit could only have been either me or Ron, and I was the one waving a wooden, maraca-less stick. The guitarist gave me the what I call Juan-from-Spain look (fear and pity, in case you had forgotten).

Here endeth Miranda’s List of Five Slightly Petty Things Which Are A Tiny Bit Discombobulating About Otherwise Relaxing Beach Excursions Particularly When There Is A Pressure To Be Elegant and Sexy On A Beach Holiday.

I hope we get better at beach-etiquette before our honeymoon.

What honeymoon?

What?

Nothing.

We
have
gone on a honeymoon, haven’t we? Can we please discuss this?

Oh, look, isn’t that Jason Donovan? He’s popped round to the school refectory to serve scones for tea?

WHAT! WHERE?
^*
runs off, salivating
^*

I think I handled that one beautifully. For all the conundra a holiday can present, it doesn’t put me off. Oh, no. It won’t stop me holidaying for I loves it so. And the only way to avoid coming a holiday cropper is to become a truly seasoned traveller. Go away for months on end, take regular sabbaticals, live a more hand-to-mouth existence. Jack in the nine to five, and just take off.

I’ve always rather fancied myself as a hippie. Don’t look at me like that, MDRC; I
could
pull it off. A permanent backpacker. Then, I always think, you’d have time to adjust to the sun, the sea, the languages. You’d become comfortable anywhere, maybe even comfortable in yourself. You’d acquire the ability to wear low-slung, baggy trousers and hair beads (agreed that if I wear them now, I’d look like a middle-aged aspiring Rastafarian from Chelsea). There’d be no societal pressure; no conventions to be bound by that make us regularly embarrass ourselves. You could make your own rules; become a true eccentric. I have always fancied that. Dodge the rat-race, slake the wanderlust once and for all.

May I say something, Big Miranda? Apart from never lie about Donovan and scones again (coz that’s one of life’s best combos), why don’t you
be
a bit more like that?

We’re far too British and practical, I’m afraid.

That’s an excuse. You’re just scared.

I am not. I do very brave things in life.

You think picnics are exciting, and can’t do a forward roll any more.

We’re just anxious – that’s just us!

That’s an excuse. Now it’s my turn to teach YOU something. I’m currently eighteen and I might have panic attacks about chemistry teachers poisoning me with gas, but if I was given the opportunity to go to Antigua then I wouldn’t stay on the beach; I’d go hiking to look for a deserted waterfall. If I got a chance to go skiing I would go, straight away, and not worry about my knees. It sounds to me like you’ve got into a habit of worrying and you’re not living the life you want to live. I know that I’m a bit of a hippie at heart. That’s me. I’ll need to go on regular long back-packing trips. I’m planning to go to Oz next year.

I know – you do go – and it’s the best five months of your life. You’ve never felt more free and alive.

But I don’t want it to be
the
best. I want it to be
one
of the best. If you’re honestly saying that thirty-eight isn’t old (which I still find hard to believe), then get out there and stop fussing! I can’t believe that I’m still alive at thirty-eight – given the amount I worry about dying – so I’m going to stop worrying and free up. I suggest you do the same.

^*
feels a bit teary
^*
I don’t know what to say . . .

You don’t have to say anything. Just take up this very worthwhile challenge.

I will. Yes, I really will. The next time I’m given the opportunity to go white-water rafting, I’m going to go.

Woooooooooo!

Oh, yeah, look at me go . . .
^*
pushes back chair, rushes off excitedly, trips over carpet edge
^*

She’s down.

She’s up again. No harm done. I sprang straight up again – it’s all about the recovery. And my knees are fine. Onwards and upwards.

Anything to stop you being what you seem to have become: an old overweight, anxious, stationery-obsessed office worker.

RUDE.

T
he only time I can confidently say that I have an anxiety-free zest for life is at Christmas. It’s the one holiday I fully embrace with childish excitement and glee. If somebody asked me, ‘Do you like Christmas?’ I’d have no hesitation at all in telling them that I don’t just like it, I LOVE it. I’m a total, unashamed Christmas fiend. I’m not the biggest fan of winter, but those glimmering, shimmering Santa-stuffed weeks sustain me through the bleak, chilly months.

HOORAY FOR CHRIMBO!
^*
sings
^*
‘Feed the bi-ir-ir-ids. Let them know it’s Christmas time –’

Umm . . . Little M, we discussed this.

Oh, yes. Sorry. ‘World.’
^*
sings
^*
‘Feed the wor-or-uh-orld! Let them know it’s Christmas time.’

^*
then sings
^*
‘Ding dong merrily on high. In heaven the bells are ringing.’

^*
joins in, ever ready to troll the yuletide carol
^*
‘DING DONG VERILY THE SKY, IS RIV’N WITH ANGELS SINGING’
^*
takes deep breath
^*
‘Glooooor-or-or-or-or-or, GLOOOOR-or-or-or-or-or –’ (Oh, dear, that’s too high for me. I always start that bit too high. And it does go on, doesn’t it? I can end up feeling faint if I really go for it in a carol service.)

Is it just me, or does anybody else, when at a carol service, sing at least ten times louder and prouder than they’d ever normally do in public? At a wedding I’ll mumble along in the mousiest fashion imaginable, but whack up a Christmas tree and suddenly I’m Sir Harry Secombe. I do love a good carol. My favourite is the last verse of ‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing’, when we all really let rip. First two verses normal, third verse quiet (though I always forget this and come in way too loudly), then last verse bellowed out as if we’re trapped down a lift-shaft, crying out for rescue. Love it. It’s rousing. (And that’s ‘rousing’, not ‘arousing’. If you find it arousing then I suggest you put this book down at once, and phone a therapist.)

There are some wonderful aspects to Christmas. It’s magical. And each year, from at least November, well, September, well, if I’m honest, May, I look forward to it hugely. The singing, eating, log fires, eating, drinking, singing, eating, the good will, the cheer, ice skating, singing, the eating, the drinking, the snow, the scarves, singing, eating, drinking, eating, singing, eating. Yes, I embrace the season in all its candle-lit, log-fire-lighting, chestnut-roasting gloriousness, and ponder the people to whom I can spread bounty and joy in this glorious season of giving.
^*
sings
^*
‘Well, I wish it could be Christmas every da-a-a-a-ay!’

^*
singing
^*
‘When the kids start singing and the la la la ne ne la ne la . . .’

No one knows the words to that bit – just come in at the end with . . .

‘SLEIGH-EH-EH!’

That’s it. And you’re back on track.

I’m so relieved that we still like Chrimbo.

Why wouldn’t we? WHY? WHY?

Coz it does have a tendency to send people a teeny tiny bit mad. Or, indeed, completely and utterly stark-raving crackers (PUN!).

Good one. Don’t worry, we do still love it.

Well, I’m just worried. Coz the last two Christmases I’ve totally been in a Gordon Grump with everyone. Mum and Dad get so annoying at Chrimbo. Even Sis turns into a massive loser. So I imagined it would just get worse and worse and we’d end up hating it.

I’m not going to deny that a little bit of, shall we say, unusual behaviour can surface around Christmas-tide. And perhaps the best way forward is to discuss it in a frank and open fashion. So, MDRC, replenish your tea – or perhaps even treat yourself to a little tot of mulled wine? A morsel of mince pie? (And don’t forget lashings of brandy butter. There’s a saying in my house: ‘Do you want a mince pie with your brandy butter?’ Lovely.) Let the Yule-tide discussion begin.

I would like to suggest that 90 per cent of people have fallen victim to the bonkers behaviour of others around about Christmas time. And that in at least 90 per cent of these 90 per cent of cases, the bonkers-ness primarily emanates from . . . The Mother.

I’m not necessarily talking about
your
mother (and certainly not
my
mother, good heavens, no: she’s the height of restraint) but whichever mother happens to be the official ‘Big Chief Organiser of All Christmas Activity’ for that year. Of course, these are enlightened times – in your household ‘The Mother’ may well be a father, or a pair of fathers, or even a couple of particularly game teenage children. But for convenience’s sake, let’s refer to this poor creature as ‘The Mother’ while we ponder the question of – and please forgive the outburst – JUST WHAT THE HELL HAPPENS TO OUR MOTHERS AT CHRISTMAS?

I mean, really, what happens? Christmas is supposed to be a relaxed and joy-filled occasion of mega-jolly fun times, but at around mid-morning on Christmas Day, this normally relaxed figure morphs into what appears to be an over-caffeinated, tinsel-decked Captain Mainwaring from
Dad’s Army
who’s just been hit on the head with a novelty cracker.