I can’t recall many years when we actually had a proper white Christmas when I was little. Snow always seemed to be the stuff of Christmas cards and festive telly adverts – pretty, twinkly, and about as real as Santa squeezing down the chimney.
On my desk at work, I have a desk tidy – or, for those unacquainted with such sophisticated stationery arrangements, a pen pot. More often than not, however, said pen pot is subjected to systematic plundering. I return to my desk only to find it stripped bare, its precious contents scattered to the four winds like the spoils of some stationery-hungry Viking raid. My pens? Gone. My pencil? Vanished without a trace. And so begins my usual performance – stomping about the office, flapping my arms and muttering expletives under my breath, as I conduct a search for my absconding implements. My beloved pencil, in particular, is a frequent wanderer, often found lounging idly on someone else’s desk as though it had never belonged to me in the first place.
It’s not just the writing implements that embark on these little unauthorised field trips. Erasers, staplers, and even my trusty pencil sharpener have, at one time or another, mysteriously migrated to new locations. Frustrated, I once took drastic action. A good while ago, I decided to mark my territory like an overzealous schoolboy, sticking little labels on everything – ‘Bert’s Stapler’, ‘Bert’s Ruler’, ‘Bert’s Eraser’. My pencil, however, received special treatment. Rather than a sticker, I anointed it with a smooth strip of Tipp-Ex and, once dried, inscribed it in careful, unwavering ink: ‘Bert’s Pencil’.
Now, for context, the name ‘Bert’ was bestowed upon me by a long-gone colleague, and while I normally detest my name being shortened, this particular nickname rather grew on me. I have, over time, become oddly attached to it – like a barnacle to a ship or a cat to the one person in the room who’s allergic.
Anyway, back to my pencil. A few days ago, the inevitable happened once again. My trusty pencil – now somewhat shorter with use, its Tipp-Ex inscription flaking like an old fresco – had disappeared. Vanished. Not a trace. Despite an exhaustive search (and much eye-narrowing at prime suspects), the culprit remained elusive. With a heavy heart, I accepted my loss and resigned myself to acquiring a new pencil.
Of course, I didn’t just pluck any old stick of graphite from the supply cupboard. No, I gave it the full treatment – sharpened it to a precise point, adorned it with a fresh strip of Tipp-Ex, and ceremoniously inscribed its name before placing it in my pen pot like some sort of sacred relic. I was finally content. Mourning for my old pencil was mercifully brief.
Now, the Tipp-Ex business reminded me of something from much earlier in my career. There was an unfortunate occasion when, in a moment of distraction, I managed to dab a Tipp-Ex brush onto the end of my nose. Have you ever tried to pick dried Tipp-Ex off your skin? Almost impossible without sacrificing a layer of epidermis. For over a week, I strutted around the office sporting a red, sore patch on the tip of my nose, looking for all the world like Rudolph had fallen foul of a dodgy cosmetic procedure.
And that memory, in turn, dredged up another one – this time from my childhood, as usual.
Every year, just before Christmas, my parents embarked on their ritual pre-festive redecorating spree. The ceilings would receive a fresh coat of silk emulsion, and the walls would be treated to whatever colour scheme took their fancy at the time. This was not always for the best. Sometimes, in a fit of questionable taste, they opted for a hideous burgundy-flowered flock wallpaper that looked as if it belonged in Dracula’s front parlour. The skirting boards, however, were always restored to a crisp, brilliant white.
Now, as is often the case, paint pots – old and new – were left lying about. Some would sit out in the yard, their lids barely clinging on, the dried runs of paint down the sides resembling the aftermath of a battle. If you prised one of these lids off, the paint inside often bore a distinctly brownish tinge, thanks to the linseed oil rising to the surface. A quick stir with a stick, however, and – voila! – good as new.
One particular Boxing Day, we found ourselves outside in the yard. I remember this vividly because one of my presents was an Evel Knievel action figure complete with stunt motorcycle. This thing was a marvel. You could rip a cord through the back of the bike, and it would go shooting off at a speed that, in my young eyes, rivalled a Grand Prix racer. Naturally, I wanted to build ramps. Naturally, I wanted to paint them. And naturally, I knew full well that I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the gloss paint.
Stealth was key. I located an old pot, prised it open, and set about slapping a fresh coat onto my homemade stunt ramps. Impatience, however, is a cruel mistress. I soon realised that watching paint dry is an exercise in existential despair, and in my frustration, I rather wished I hadn’t painted the ramps at all. Just then, my sister wandered past, spotted my illicit handiwork, and, with the casual cruelty of an elder sibling, threatened to dob me in. Worse still, she tapped one of my freshly painted ramps with the toe of her shoe, causing it to lurch forward and knock into the paint pot. The pot teetered ominously, then came to rest – but not before sloshing (is that a word?) a generous amount of white gloss paint straight onto my brand-new Evel Knievel bike.
I was livid. A righteous fury seized me, and in a fit of vengeance, I grabbed the offending paint pot and – while still holding it – executed a flinging motion that drenched my sister in thick, brilliant-white gloss paint. My thirst for justice, however, was not yet quenched. As she let out a banshee wail, I plunged my little hand into the pot and, in the ensuing scuffle, smeared as much paint as I could onto her face and hair.
And so, on that Boxing Day, in the bitter winter air, two paint-covered siblings stood in the yard, shivering in their underwear as seething parents scrubbed at them with all the fury of Michelangelo chiselling at a block of marble.
A white Christmas after all.
Wording 