My descendants are here, by which I mean the people who descend on us at Christmas. They include my son, Terence, who has never quite forgiven me for the name I gave him. I remind him that Terence, his namesake, was a celebrated Latin writer, but this does not mollify him. His beef? On the very day he arrived at boarding school, he was given a nickname that has quite blighted his life: TWAT.
Seeing him for the first time since leaving school, schoolmates who should know better still cry “Twat do I owe the pleasure?”
“Grow up,” he always replies, but ‘tis too late: they’re grown up already. The riposte, in sum, is futile.
Futility is in the air. It’s the night before Christmas, and we have just risen from a table still laden with food and drink. The children are soon to be sent off to bed, and for once, they are happy to turn in. They know that the sooner they do, the sooner will the moment arrive when The Ice Man Cometh. This character – charioteer, aviator, and Robin Hood rolled into one portly frame – is of course the deathless Santa Claus, who will be wriggling down our tiny chimney to place a bag full of gimcrackery at the foot of their beds. If they doubt his existence, it is not in their interest to declare as much. If challenged on their credulity, they are bright enough to tender in evidence the gifts themselves, plainly tangible enough to place the old buffer’s physical existence beyond peradventure.
A glass of wine is being left out for this Phileas Fogg on steroids – crucial, obviously, as a lubricant for the ‘Yo! Ho! Ho!’ – plus some, to me, unappetising-looking biscuits. Carrots are spread forth in bunches, destined, of course, for the reindeer. They look equally unappetising.
Reindeer. The mention of these antlered beasts, less mythical than some might think, encourages me to tell a joke. It’s the one about the English couple who, together with their guide, were on a mid-winter tour of Moscow when there was a slight downpour. The husband said it was snowing, but the guide demurred, describing it as rain. The difference of opinion, yet to become heated, was resolved by the wife, who reminded him pointedly, “Rudolph the Red knows rain, dear.”
The gag is lost on the children and leaves the adults stony-faced. Terence adds this to the list of things that leave him unamused.
Worth a chuckle
“Contrived when first uttered, now so hoary it has grown a beard.” As remarks go, a bit tough, I think. The gag may be old, but even in repetition, it is worth a chuckle or, at worst, a smile. Certainly, it does not deserve the Santamonious scowl with which Terence greeted it.
I say as much, and add: “In senescence, dear fruit of my loins, you have become as humourless as Queen Victoria. I think I shall rename you ‘the Old Vic’.”
“That, too, is not funny,” he replies grumpily. He fails to see that the riposte makes my point.
In truth, Terence has a right to grump. He is blessed with identical triplets, and he is blessed off. These are not children in the normal sense of the word, but three boys, now eight years of age, who think they are Terrific but are actually Terrifying. They are the product of an ‘in vitro’ in which the gynae overegged the pud. At the time, Terence thought of suing, something I personally wouldn’t do, but the medico hot-footed it to Australia. When he left, I casually said: “Pity he didn’t go Down Under earlier.” Not a bad one, I think, but the parents disagreed. Perhaps I am losing my touch.
The triplets were, without reference to me, named Donny, Johnny and Ronnie – for rhyme, I accept, but for no obvious reason. The choice seems execrable to me. I would have been less distressed if they had been called Stone, Paper and Scissors or even, in another Latinate flourish, Hic, Haec, Hoc. Pull yourself together, I say to myself, this is truly none of your business. After all, a rose by any other name would be just as sweaty.
Monsters incarnate
Donny – I think it is he, since I know the boy by that name to be the sensitive one – has just left the dining table in tears. I follow him into his lair, there to do what I can to console him. I am properly the one to supply this comfort. I like the Trippers, as the parents insist on calling them, and it matters not to me that they are monsters incarnate. They seem to like me in return, though I am not quite sure why, as I am rather a curmudgeonly old bag. I do give them nice presents, which may explain it. Otherwise, I must accept the force of the adage that grandparents and grandchildren get on famously because they have a common enemy.
A mince pie, the last one to be eaten, is at the heart of the problem. Though Donny dearly wanted it, Terence elected to give it to Ronny, who then placed it, gobbet by gobbet, into his open maw with an ‘in-my face-is in-your face’ level of provocation. The triumphalism hurts Donny, but what cuts him to the quick is the way the pie was distributed.
“I was cheated,” he sobs.
“What do you think your father should have done?” I enquire. (In this conversation, you will discover me at my Socratic best. I shall tell you when I am being philosophical by using the word ‘canon’.)
“He should have given it to me. I have worked hardest this year, and deserve it most.” He is invoking the canon of effort.
“Shouldn’t he have given it to Ronny, who came top of his class?” I ask. I am, of course, invoking the canon of merit.
Double-barrelled salvo
“No, I don’t like Ronny, and anyway, he is not the firstborn.” He is invoking the canons of affinity and status – a double-barrelled salvo.
“Well, why shouldn’t Johnny get it? He contributed most to the family by keeping the garden free of weeds.” The canon of contribution.
“Perhaps Johnny should have got it,” I persist. He looks badly in need of a square meal, and the mince pie might have done a bit towards rounding him out. This is the canon of … yes … need.
“Well,” says Donny desperately, “at least Daddy could have divided it into three and given us each a piece.” We have moved into the canon of equality, which I take to be distinct, but wrongly, as I shall soon discover.
“If the pie had been given to your mother, who really likes mince pies, you’d still have been treated equally, not so?” Behold, I am invoking the canon of equality, but equalising down, which is every bit as equalising in its nature as equalising up.
Donny looks bemused. I decide to invoke the Bible by way of explanation. I feel a bit pious in doing so – “the Devil can cite scripture for his own purpose”, and all that – but I am cloaked in the religiosity of Christmas.
“Do you remember the parable of the labourers in the vineyard. They start at different times, but each, as promised, is paid the self-same wage. Is this fair, equal, right, Donny?” Now I am developing the canon of equality, but postulating a per capita assessment.
Ronny kind of sees this point and feels trapped.
“Still looks very unfair to me,” he says, and, turning over, falls asleep. I can’t blame him. This is undoubtedly a strange kind of bedtime story: I do see that there might be three brers, the rhyming triplets, but I am certainly no Goldilocks. The best I can say is that I am not a wicked witch, and in this spirit, I return to the Christmas table.
Dumbstruck
I recount what I have done. The party looks dumbstruck – that is, all but dear Prof Seth Allot, a very old widower who is customarily a guest at our Yuletide feast. Nodding his approval at the taxonomy, as he is kind enough to describe my canons, he delivers a short lecture on the ethical and moral framework in which such ideas must be placed and out of which they eternally operate.
Besides being very wise, he used to lecture on these topics in the days when men were men and she’s were frightened. I listen carefully to his disquisition and find it intriguing. I shall provide a recital when next I write.
Right now, though, I need time to digest. Frankly, after all the canonical instruction, I feel I should be canonised. Saint Wanda has a nice ring to it. But maybe not, given the time I would need to complete a proper confession.
Or Watt-ever.
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