Thursday, 27 December 2012

Peace on earth...or something like that.

On Boxing Day I lost a Christmas-themed quiz.  I was not happy.  Not at all happy.  I do not like losing at quizzes.  This is a well-known fact.

I was particularly unhappy that the question that sealed my team’s defeat was about what is probably the best-known Christmas song of all time – The Twelve Days of Christmas.  Apparently, the twelve lords did not leap. 

Well, they leapt.  There just weren’t twelve of them. 

Allegedly.

I am pretty sure the last time I checked the leaping was being done by twelve lords.  While eleven ladies danced.  Presumably with one lord thinking “what the bloody hell am I doing this for – I’m not going to get a lady, no matter how much I leap about.”

Unless there was wife-swapping going on.  Maybe on the thirteenth day of Christmas the true love turned up with thirteen sets of car keys in a bowl and a hopeful smile.

Anyway.  I could have sworn there were twelve lords.  I was so certain, I even invoked the Great God Google which came up with a Wikipedia page.

HA!  There are several variations of this song.  One, for example, begins with ‘Twelve lords a-leaping…’

Triumphantly, I read this out to the room, continuing through the list – eleven ladies, ten drummers, nine pipers….

Until one of my own team helpfully pointed out that we still had it wrong.

Bloody drummers.

However, it got me thinking about this song and it occurred to me that the singer was doing pretty much what I’ve been doing today – a spot of Christmas stock-taking.  No doubt he/she was beached on the sofa, trying to watch Lord of the Rings Part 2 over the top of his/her mincepie-filled stomach and attempting to muster up the energy to go and rummage in the toybox to find the source of the disembodied voice that periodically intoned “To infinity and beyond” before drop-kicking it out of the front door with a cry of “Off you go then.”

Or something like that.

Anyway, this was Christmas in the Chaos household.

 
On the first day of Christmas a photography company gave to me…

…a photo of a random child on a CD.  Instead of the photo of my three-year old that I had actually paid for.  And a whole load of muppetry when I rang to politely point out their error.  How in the name of arse am I supposed to provide the proof number of the missing image?  Presumably the clue is in the word “missing.”
 

On the second day of Christmas Ben gave to me…

…two mobile children.  The little bugger just had to learn to walk the week before Christmas, didn’t he?  And the smuggety-smug look on his face really isn’t necessary.


 
 
 
On the third day of Christmas my colleagues gave to me…



…a three am arrival home from a night out resulting in my first and last hangover of 2012, a pair of lost shoes and a resolution to never drink again.


 
 
 
On the fourth day of Christmas Jessops gave to me…

…four photos printed in an entirely random and unhelpful size – seriously, what is it with purveyors of photos this Christmas?


On the fifth day of Christmas Baskervilles Gym gave to me…

…five million trillion overexcited and rampaging children all waiting for Santa’s half-hourly appearances to turn somersaults in the middle of the play-gym.  Don’t ask.  I’m trying to wipe the experience from my memory.


On the sixth day of Christmas some people who clearly didn’t like me gave to Thomas and Ben…

…unfortunately considerably more than six noise-making devices.  There is the drumming wooden dog, the unbearably smug Buzz Lightyear, the excruciatingly cheerful Chuggington train, the five speckled frogs book, and all the other things that can be bashed, blown, thrown, buzzed and wound.  And that’s without even mentioning the fact that our living room now looks as though Toy Story came and threw up in it.  Every piece of Buzz Lightyear merchandise ever made now lives in our house.  Along with Mr Potato Head.  And every single Toy Story jigsaw puzzle that has ever existed.  And possibly some that have yet to exist.  There can’t be this much Toy Story stuff in existence – it has to be appearing via some wormhole from a future where Buzz Lightyear rules the universe.


On the seventh day of Christmas my extended family gave to me…

…a seven-point defeat in the annual Christmas quiz.  Yes, I am still sulking.


On the eighth day of Christmas my sense of duty gave to me…

…eight minor injuries sustained while attempting to assemble a flat-packed toy kitchen with instructions in Polish.  But payback came with about two hours of vegetating on the sofa while two small children played kitchens with a slightly alarming level of frenzy.

And that’s it.  We’re done.  I don’t care what happens on the ninth, tenth, eleventh and twelfth day of Christmas.

Well, unless it involves lords a-leaping.  A dozen of them.

Then I’ll be asking for a re-count.  We was robbed.


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