See you next year!

'See you later!' She screams at us, mere mortal members of the family.

She slams the door, setting me off.

'I've told you a hundred times! Do not slam this door! This house has been standing for hundreds of years and you kids will be the ones wrecking it!'

'She's out already. She can't hear you.' My husband says.

I know. But I have to say it. It makes me feel better and it makes me feel like I have an important role to play around here. The Guardian of the Ancient Walls: Me.

'And don't shout!' I yell as an afterthought. 

'Why is she always shouting like this?' I say to my husband but he just shrugs and makes his way to the fridge.

This is just before lunch. It's the Christmas holidays and everyone is in the kitchen. Rosie is out to buy some specific item that her mother (me) has annoyingly forgotten - or not bothered - to buy. Something as exotic as organic salted butter perhaps. No-one cares but Rosie. We are having brunch, the improvised make-your-own type of brunch and everyone is buzzing around from the table to the fridge and the fridge to the table - except Rosie of course who has to go to the shop. 

‘Mum, do you want sex on the beach?’

I manage not to choke on my tea. I try to keep my cool. I glance at my husband. He looks as if he hasn’t heard his eldest daughter. Is he going deaf?

‘Mum, do you want sex on the beach?’ 

What can I say? I have the choice between being cool and not being cool. My husband is drinking his Christmas beer (yes, they do Christmas beer) totally oblivious to the crisis.

‘Is it good?’

‘Yes, it is. Zoe just tried it at breakfast. She liked it.’

This time I do choke on my tea and splutter all over the table. I grab my napkin and glance at my husband. Definitely going deaf. Need to book an appointment.

‘Mum! Chill! She only dipped her tongue in it.’

I recover my voice.

'Still … you know … breakfast … and she's too young!'

'It's not breakfast, it's brunch. There's a big difference. And who cares? It's Christmas.'

I want to say that I do and I look towards my husband for support but he is still focusing on his Christmas beer. I have lost complete control over this family.

I stop talking. That’s best. I drink my Sex-on-the-Beach with my eggs and beans on toast thinking it is an interesting combination.

Later on as I check the fridge to see if the Christmas Champagne has not been accidentally thrown into an other cocktail by a young member of the family, I notice six pretty screw-top bottles, neatly lined up, each with a label saying Sex-on-the-Beach. She has mixed SIX LITRES of Sex-on-the-Beach! Under my own roof!

When the door bangs again so hard that I can feel the whole house shaking I have little energy left to give it the usual warning.

‘Easy on the door! This house has been here for over a hundred years and you lot … you know ... ‘

They do know.

The banging the door this time is just the youngest child leaving the room in a huff. The argument that has been going on over this messy brunch is about a black crop-top. I am shocked that the baby of the family knows such a word as crop-top but I cannot even voice this concern. There is so much noise around this table and yet my husband is saying nothing. He truly must be going deaf, sitting there, unperturbed, sipping his Christmas beer. The ownership of the black crop-top is is being discussed as this will determine who would have worn it last and therefore who is responsible for washing it and drying it. The mixologist has lost her patience and is telling her sister to go away and warning her that she will never ever again let her try her cocktails.

The baby of the family is telling her she is rubbish anyway and that her friends will be doing her make-up (an other shock for me, our baby talking about make-up). I avoid the heart-attack by leaving the kitchen to go and find the crop-top (oh my gosh it is tiny). As I am conscientiously ironing it I feel like burning it with the iron and feel guilty that I was not aware of such items in my daughters' cupboards. This item does not need ironing but if I stick it in the dryer it will no doubt melt (or worse - shrink!), just like my son's trunks did when he tried to blow-dry them. However I am pleased I am still able to revert to being a mother in circumstances such as these. After all it is only Christmas once a year.

When the crop-top crisis is over - thank you mother - she still manages to slam the door on her way back to the kitchen. I can't even even place my usual warning line about the ancient walls.

‘Am off to a party later!’ She shouts at her siblings. (Why do they all shout like that I ask myself, is that the Christmas spirit these days?)

’PARTY?’

Her three older siblings shout back in unison and turn their heads, three pairs of scandalised eyes glowering at me.

‘PARTY? You are letting her go to a PARTY?’

‘Just like that? Not even asking for the parents' numbers and the kids’ grades?’

‘Standards keep dropping around here.’

My husband yawns, pretending to be tired. Mind you, this is tiring.

‘Hang on! How old were we when we were allowed to go to one of those?’

‘And did we have to fight for it!’

‘Weeks ahead we had to prepare the ground. Top international diplomats could get lessons from our parents …’

‘Not anymore.’

‘This is crazy. She’s only 15!’

'Mum! Dad! Wake up! She's 15!'

'We never got to go to a party at 15!'

The three of them shake their heads in agreement, glaring at us, well at me as their dad is getting a second Christmas beer. He clearly wants out of this discussion.

Then there is a knock at the door. Oh no! It's going to be slammed again and I am again worrying about my ancient walls.

'Everyone! STOP TALKING!'

This shouting is giving me a sore head (or is it the Sex-on-the-Beach?).

Our daughter the mixologist raises her hand and says.

'Please, be quiet and sit still for a while. I have some news for you.'

My husband raises his head at last.

'Do you think she's getting us a puppy?' He asks hopefully.

'I shouldn't think so.' I say, raising my eyes.

The kitchen then is plunged in complete silence probably for the first time in a hundred years or so as the mixologist goes to the door and returns literally dragging a young man by the hand.

'Please, everyone meet Atticus, my fiancé.'

Now it is my husband who chokes on his Christmas beer. I nudge him with my elbow.

'But Atticus!' He whispers. I won't need to make that appointment after all.

The house is still and quiet, no need to worry about my walls. The siblings are in a state of shock. Atticus is looking around wide-eyed, trying to smile and looking at his fiancée the mixologist for help.