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Day 186
So Christmas has been and gone. Christmas Eve was lovely and we went to the Shangri-La for carols, cookies and mulled wine. Rufus bought me a lovely white wool coat which he had made for me specially. Daddy took the girls to Bar Buddha for a cocktail. All in bed for 8.30pm. The ripping of the presents began very early and we were all pleased with what we had been given. Apart from Rufus - everyone had forgotten to get him something so Fern, being the first to notice, ran off to her room and quickly wrapped some old tat. And then fortunately he found a gift under the tree from best friend Jo so was happy. Liam cracked open the Baileys and we all had a very civilised morning. The day itself was fine if not slightly strange. We spent the whole of Christmas dinner at an assorted table including the girls, Liam, me, Rufus, a 70 year old Frenchman, a silent Nepali man, 2 silent Nepali kids and Elton John's florist. A bonkers blonde hippy woman who spent her twenties living in a horse drawn caravan somewhere up the M6 and in her free time runs a fruit farm on Ibiza where she keeps Jade Jagger in a steady supply of oranges. She also drinks red wine like water and smokes like a chimney. Hope I share a nursing home with her in the future, she's got better stories than me. At the next table was Billy from Paisley (who looked and sounded like Begbie). An ordinary bloke who seemed to have done alright by marrying a posh blonde from the Home Counties, adopting two African kids and moving to Dubai where he helped build Palm Island. He doesn't want to be reminded of life in Paisley anymore but enjoyed the necessary slagging he got from us. Rufus was forced (or 'volunteered') to be Santa for the day and gave the most extrovert and hilarious performance; I cringed at the time but looking back it was very funny. It involved insulting most of the customers with clever innuendos - everybody seemed to get it. The restaurant owner proudly declared 'Now THAT'S how you do Santa'.
Liam, who always frequents Tam Shepherd's joke shop in Glasgow at Christmas, had given the girls a trick silver spoon (snaps in the middle when you pick it up) which we tried out on the waiters. I have never seen such hilarity - the innocent laughter of the waiters was the sweetest sound. Of course the spoon was funny - the first time - but it didn't really require hysterics. And for the joke to be repeated 1000 times. You should have seen their faces when we brought out a fake Jaffa Cake. I think a joke shop would go down well here and will email Tam himself.
Liam can't sit round a table - despite being forced into years of practice with me -so is up and down, pacing like a caged animal, frequently going out for walks before quickly eating his turkey and then deciding at about 5pm he's had enough. Of course he takes the girls with him and I descend into that sad, weird place that only people who share the care of their children with an absent parent can relate to. A feeling of emptiness. A reminder that you made an arse of your family and will have to live with the consequences for the rest of your - and their - life. Although I waited 6 months for someone to take the girls from me, even for half an hour - when it happens, it feels rubbish. We're all too close now to be apart. So they go home and I sit and drink too much eggnog and mulled wine and before long am crying and have to be taken home by a slightly manic Santa. Up at 5am on Boxing Day to make porridge and see Daddy and the girls off to an adventure camp for 2 days and then back to bed to wallow in my misery until they return. Rufus has his birthday on 27th December so I kind of had to get up for that - and presented him with my favourite thing, fabulous bright yellow shoes. He said something about them not fitting and he might have to take them back. It's hard to fill the time now in Kathmandu and we are desperate to get on with our travels. Next week we all go to Chitwan Safari Park (Asia's best!) for four days to ride on elephants.
The home schooling has stopped for the holidays, a relief to us all. I don't think Clover can take much more of me shouting, crying and tearing my hair out when she tells me confidently 4x6 is 2. No, its 24. I try again. What is 4x6? She suggests 8. Smack. Stupid child. I was mortified though when I emailed their old school to complain Clover can't do long multiplication very well and can I have some teaching methods? The curt reply was - 'they don't do long multiplication for about another 2 years'. Poor Clover. She can do it though, pretty well, due to the hours of practice we have put in and I am proud I taught her - at least she will go back with an advantage over the others. But it sure wasn't worth us both weeping and yelling at each other and banging our heads on the floor. Just wait till the school sees how good her Euclidean geometry is.
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