I was sent this newspaper link a few minutes ago by a reader who is oft times amused by my ability to see an alternative view of any issue. ‘Go on, spin this one’ he said. I recoiled from the challenge for a brief moment or two – too macabre for the time of year.
Then I read to the end of the article. ‘The woman has mental problems’.
‘Has she’ I thought, ‘perhaps she is the sanest one amongst us’. I have often wondered what the real definition of insanity is.
You see, this lady was discovered dancing naked around her apartment. Happy as Larry. The only problem was that on her sofa lay a ‘several months old corpse of a man’. That got her arrested initially.
There was no suggestion that she was responsible for his death, nor that she was dancing with delight that he was dead. She was just dancing happily, content in her own mind.
Well now, I thought. Let’s look on the positive side.
We’ll skate tenderly round the issue of rigor mortis and its advantages at this time of seasonal cheer, over indulgence and brewer’s droop; and maybe just confine ourselves to the societal pressure that is put upon ladies to look utterly delighted at the prospect of taking that shambling, stumbling, red-faced drunk home with you after he’s humiliated you all evening with his coarse jokes and wandering eyes and worse, simply because that’s what you are supposed to do (with a suitably benign expression on your face) when you are married to it…(no part of this post applies to Mr G!)(but may be pertinent to previous husbands…)
She hadn’t had to agonise over the correct dress to wear to his office ‘do’, just the right side of everybody fancying her without appearing cheap or setting off the green eyed monster of a thousand Christmas arguments. No, she could dance naked if she wished.
She hadn’t spent the price of a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes on a set of brass re-usable handles on a wooden box to ‘see him off’ in approved fashion.
She hadn’t had to spend days touring overcrowded shops looking for a present for his Mother. Or his Sister. Or find the addresses of all the relatives he never bothered with until it came time for her to send them a Christmas card.
She hadn’t got up at the crack of dawn to buy an overpriced turkey and search for Brussels sprouts that weren’t already brown at the edges, ‘cos everyone knows what Christmas lunch looks like for a man – and it has bread sauce and bits of bacon wound round the chipolatas, and you spend the next week wondering what else you can do to disguise the fact that he is finally going to have to eat the legs…
She won’t be sitting down at last to watch the ’100 best own goals of the season’.
She won’t be making 25 turkey sandwiches on Boxing Day on account of all his mates coming round to help him put the body shell back on that MG he’s been restoring for the last ten years.
She won’t be wondering if he will rise from his comatose position on the sofa to help with the washing up – she knows damn well he won’t – and there isn’t a ton of washing up anyway…
She won’t be wondering where that strange smell is coming from and should she nag him to change his socks again – she knows…
And she’s dancing, and the consensus of opinion is that she must be mad.
The rest of the female race will be staring at the motionless figure on their sofa and wondering whether it is they who is mad; and wondering what sort of mood it will be in when it finally starts moving again.
Hands up ladies – how much of a ‘traditional’ Christmas would you put on for yourselves?
*Conflict of interest declaration – Mr G is taking care of Christmas this year; no tree but a Turkey that would feed the five thousand. I’ve ordered smoked salmon and a half bottle of Champagne, and I shall be the one motionless on the sofa! I doubt that I shall get away with dancing naked, but I’ll be sure to let you know if I do.
Enjoy your hard work…