Drinking and Driving

Dear Mum

It’s Christmas Eve and I type this sitting in a cafe, sipping a cup of cha. You’re currently driving Kate to a friend’s thus continuing the traditional parental taxi service.

I, on the other hand, am watching the clock. The car is parked in a two-hour maximum stay car park. We’ve one hour, forty minutes left.

Dad is a few doors down from me, at a brewery for a wine and cheese tasting event and I’m his ride.

I’m very happy to do it. Sitting in this cafe, watching families reunited for the season and chirping ‘Merry Christmas’ is delightful. It’s not snowing (hallelujah!) and I have a week off work next week (God be praised!).

Thinking of Dad a few vicinities down the road, feeling mellow as he swirls glasses of ruby coloured elixirs – well, it’s what Christmas is all about. Treating yourself.

Whenever I’ve told people –people older than me, that is – that I’m driving for my drinking father this Christmas Eve, they say “about time!” or “the tables have turned!” (Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t this imply that I’m constantly intoxicated and so require one of you to collect me from booze fests, driving me home as I hang my head out of the window like a panting mongrel? I don’t think this has once happened...?)

I think these family friends really mean that it’s only fair that younger generations return the favour as they age and give lifts to their partying parents. I agree with this.

I thoroughly relish seeing you and Dad get dressed up to go out, excitedly piling into my car, and if you return home tipsy even better. It’s most entertaining and is what Christmas should be all about. (Like the year you held a Christmas dinner party and treated guests to your rendition of FreddieMercury’s ‘Barcelona’ as you served up the pavlova, tipping your chair back and throwing your arms wide, clutching two serving spoons).

Kate confided in me only yesterday “I think Dad is trying to get me drunk” after he ladled more mulled wine into her glass.

“Well, quite right” was my response.

I repeated these sentiments on the journey over here, telling Dad “You just have a good time. You’re not to worry about me, just enjoy yourself. It is Christmas after all.”

Even you, Mum, admitted that when placing the ham in the oven at 7.30 this morning, dousing it in cider, you saved the last finger for yourself. ‘Why not?’ was my reaction. Christmas is the one time of year when alcohol and chocolate is an acceptable breakfast.

We’ve all worked hard and, like everyone around the world, have faced some difficult times this year. The four of us are entitled to lie-ins, bevies and sweet treats during the coming days. I plan on taking full advantage of Christmas traditions – I aim to feel full, fat and festive all day tomorrow.

Now, however, I best make a move. We’ve got half an hour left in the car park. I’m off to coax Dad from the brewery.

Merry Christmas!