It’s half nine AT NIGHT and I am trying to WRITE. I am also in bed tapping away on my laptop. Papabear is asleep in his boudoir.
Mammy has decided that this is excellent timing to climb up into the attic and throw down two giant plastic bags which contain the familial Christmas tree. This has made an unmerciful noise. Which is fine. Because banging around an attic and throwing stuff down the stairs gets you all the attention you think you need.
Mammy has also decided it is now time to shove the NEW Christmas tree into the attic. This gigantic box containing the aforementioned newbie tree has been sitting in the downstairs hall for at least two weeks. Somehow, it has been moved to Papabear’s boudoir. It is about five feet tall and extremely heavy.
Naturally, it has become my job to cease working, as Mammy has called me to go into Papabear’s room and obtain the new tree, and pass it up the ladder to Mammy. Which is fine, as I didn’t do any weight lifting this week.
I have nearly broken my neck standing on the two giant plastic bags that contain the old Christmas tree and pulled a muscle passing the new giant box of a tree up to Mammy who then proceeded to yank the thing from me, drop it back on me, and proclaim that I wasn’t helping at all. I also had to wake Papabear, not advisable under normal circumstances, let alone in a Christmas tree crisis.
I am most miffed, and having jumped back in bed to continue my writer’s block, realise that Papabear is now awake and yelling at Mammy from the bottom of the ladder. The radio has been switched on and The GaGa is advising that she is bluffin with her muffin, and I SO get that.