We had snatched a festive triumph from the jaws of defeat. Then the canine went crackers.
I will be so glad to see Christmas over. The last few weeks have been beyond exhausting.
It began with the planning meeting for our Christmas Gala. This annual event is about the only time in the year when all our residents emerge from their apartments. For a moment, our community space, normally more like the Marie Celeste with streamed music, feels like it actually has a community.
Thomas, my socially minded husband, and Robena, the community’s spiritual ‘guide’, were, as ever, the dynamic duo on the planning group. They persuaded the group to invite the new Labour MP, Aisha Khalid, to open the event, who they were keen to meet. Robena was particularly keen to talk about Modi with her, and we were told that Ms Kalid was keen to attend a community event.
Robena volunteered to source a suitably large tree, at ‘mate’s rates’, from a cousin of hers, Giles Fernly-Frogget, who had a huge estate in Wales covered in fast-growing conifers. Giles, a successful city trader, had bought the estate to avoid inheritance tax and then discovered the potential of growing conifers to create carbon credits – money for hot air as he called it. Giles was happy to oblige as he was coming down to London to join the farmers’ tractor protest at the changes to inheritance tax and could drop a tree in.
Then pantsuitgate broke. Aisha Khalid had worn a striking red pantsuit to give her maiden speech in parliament, which resulted in unusually extensive coverage in the media – not that the content of her speech on the Gaza genocide got much mention. Then, someone with a big following on X, shared a picture of this same pantsuit being promoted by Mr Shah of Shah Shah She She Designs in our high street using the photo of Ms Khalid in parliament. They also claimed that Ms Khalid had not paid for the suit. Aisha then claimed she was stressed and cancelled all her appointments, including ours. Robena now only had two days to find a replacement and reluctantly called on her nephew, our ousted Parliamentary representative, Rupert Fitzwell. He is now a ‘consultant’ for Jacob Rees-Mogg’s hedge fund and has a lot of time on his hands.
So the big day arrived. We were all dressed in our finest, glugging our mulled wine and munching on mince pies. Fortunately, We secured an appearance by our local school’s choir. They have become much-loved local celebrities since their appearance on Gavin Malloy’s ‘Scratch the Surface and You Will Find a Voice’ reality TV show. Gavin is a charismatic, somewhat over-enthusiastic choir Svengali figure and a friend of Aisha Khalid, so he agreed to come along, too. At least we had one Christmas celebrity making an appearance.
They launched into a programme of festive songs. The choir was angelic and adorable in a way only year 5s can be, and Gavin bounced around like a bespectacled balloon. Everyone was singing along and looking quite radiant.
Our oldest resident, Humphry Calder, brought his support dog, Phoebe. Phoebe, a handsome golden labrador, is a favourite here. She has been trained to pick up objects that Humphrey can no longer reach. She is peerless in the laundry, where she puts her master’s dropped pants and socks into a basket with alacrity and a little doggy drool.
We expected Pheobe to lie quietly as she does whenever Humphry sits in the lounge. However, it was obvious when the choir launched into a spirited rendition of ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’ that she had not been exposed to live music. She began to howl vigorously and enthusiastically as if she had finally heard the call of her pack.
The choir of youngsters contrived valiantly to continue through versions of Slade’s ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’ and ‘Deck the Halls’ until Phoebe’s howling became deafening, and she began to attack the tree cocking her leg and peeing onto it. Humphrey rose to calm her down, slipped on the pee and pitched headlong into the tree.
There was an ominous cracking sound. Sparks flew from the breaking Christmas lights, and as if in slow motion, the tree fell onto Giles and his group of protesting farmers, who had also joined us. At this point, the assembled community panicked and headed for the doors, ignoring weeping children. They overturned the table with the plates of mince pies and glasses of mulled wine, turning the company’s finery into red-splattered rags.
The farmers, presumably well used to a crisis, extinguished the flames set off by the Christmas lights with their tweed jackets and continued drinking. Gavin Malloy was furious and launched into a tirade over the safety of Giles’ tree, calling him an unethical ****. Rupert intervenes, calling Gavin a tedious warbling gnome, and a fight ensues.
I quickly retreated to our apartment. I have never been one for resolving community relations.
