Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing

The most trying of my relatives has now departed, leaving those of us who remain feeling like wrung out emotional rags. Still, at least it's over for another year.

I spent at least part of today helping my nephew play Modern Warfare II. This wasn't terribly taxing, since it involved little more than telling him to follow the on-screen mission prompts, which he seemed otherwise determined to ignore. What really startled me was quite how boring the game was. Sure, it looked pretty, but all the missions seemed very linear and it felt like you were being led by the nose through what you had to do. Fine, perhaps, for 8 year-olds, but not so much for those of us who've made it to double digits...

We've had a moderately horrible Christmas. Not quite as bad as three years ago, but still pretty appalling.

On the plus side, I scored some nice presents: music, some nice books (including the biography of Paul Dirac), and a completely ridiculous pair of slippers from my sister. On the minus side, well, the whole rest of the day, really.

Still, at least it's over for another year.

The rest of the gang went out carolling for Oxfam, as they do every year. Happily I was able to duck out of it, put off by both the cold and the horror of singing in public, so I got to stay in and catch up on my reading.

Rather bumpy Boxing Day, marred by a massive lunchtime row over my sister's less than wonderful table manners. After a temporary expulsion and an apology, peace was eventually settled with a game of Pictureka. When it became clear that my team had been prematurely hobbled — it's never a good sign when both pater and grandmother are both assigned to the same side when playing games of observation — I decided to opt out.

With the rest otherwise engaged, I sloped off to the study to watch the Dr Who Christmas Special on the iPlayer, which I rather enjoyed. I particularly liked the whole steampunk thing, which really suited the cybermen and the delightfully sinister Miss Hartigan, and thought the whole David Morrissey misdirect was particularly nicely handled.

Then, with Dr Who safely watched, I returned in time to help out with the Guardian topical cryptic crossword. I think we managed to complete the whole thing, with the exception of the clue, "Block bridge spectator on big hand(6)", which turned out to be "kibosh", which completely confounded us.

Another day of mooching around South London — something now honed to a fine edge — this time in search of cheap laptops and toys. After a long lunch in a faux sports bar, where we stood out like, well, geeks in a sports bar, I decided to call it a day and headed off to Euston to catch the train back to the motherland.

Upon my return, I discovered that the Christmas spirit had arrived with a vengeance, with my mater massively stressed and willing to flip out over the slightest of infractions. So stressed was she that when she announced that we were going to have baked potatoes for supper, I didn't have the heart to tell her that I'd already had a baked spud for lunch. Consequently, I now feel like I never want to see another potato as long as I live, which means that tomorrow's roast Sunday lunch — where the veggie option consists almost entirely of roast potatoes — is going to be pretty purgatorial.

And as if supper wasn't difficult enough, I managed to knock my pater's wine glass over, sending a flood of cheap rot-gut everywhere. Fortunately, it wasn't really my fault, and so the tide of wrath was turned and instead broke upon the rock of my nephew's appalling table manners.

I am so not looking forward to Christmas.

Despite my misgivings, our works outing, held jointly with the iron mongers, passed off tolerable, thanks to some clever seating arrangements. High points: not being outstandingly rude to anyone; quoting Clausewitz; and escaping before half past four. Low points: neurotic, retentive planning; and pretty much everything else.

Never mind the hideous mawkishness that is A Christmas Carol, John Macefield's The Box of Delights is what Christmas all about: dodgy vicars, pagan myths, scrobbling, wolves and magic boxes.

I know I've got a copy around here somewhere but I haven't seen it for years. I wonder where it could be? Maybe I'll spend part of this afternoon trying to track it down.

My mater has just let slip that my grandmother has decided to send cheques (and fairly substantial ones too) to all her grandchildren. All? Well, not quite. It seems she's not sending me anything.

Although, unlike some of my cousins, I don't need the money, I still feel slightly miffed by the whole experience. I think it's pretty poor that my grandmother didn't bother to mention it to me when we last spoke — in fact she said something about not giving presents to grown up members of the family, unless you were going to see them on Christmas day — and I only got to hear about it because my parents were worried that my sister might mention it.

I'm extremely tempted to write a letter to my grandmother, to tell her that I understand that she's in straightened financial circumstances, include a cheque for same amount as sent to my sister, and damn the expense. Fortunately or unfortunately, I don't seem to have my cheque book with me...

This morning, I encountered vincel struggling through the atrium, loaded up with parcels, like a bald Mr Tumnus. When the stairs were reached, this wretched vision of a human being turned aside and took the lift, claiming that his feeble health — I suspect a Dickensian complain like rickets of the lung or orphan's croup or some such — prevented him from ascending without mechanical assistance.

It was a truly pathetic sight. So pathetic, that I kept expecting him to say, "God bless us, one and all..."

I think I've reached a decision. I think I'm going to opt out of Christmas from here on out. I know I've said it before, but this time I think I'm serious.