Wednesday December 24/2014
Eggnog is not commonly found in the UK. Christmas is all around us, but eggnog is not. And it's stupid. You might say, "Well, Chelsea. Why wouldn't you just make some yourself from scratch?" To that I would have to reply, "Hello, my name is Chelsea. We quite clearly have never met, otherwise you would know that I much prefer complaining about a situation than actually resolving it. That, and I cannot be trusted over a stove-- if that is in fact how you make eggnog (refer to the egg soup fiasco in previous post). So therefore, in order to sustain my yearly tradition, and feel the warmth of christmas in my belly-- and inevitably on my hips and ass (it's literally liquid fat laced with nutmeg), I have been forced to break my oath, and succumb to the treachery that is Starbucks. Apart from feeling like a shameful, shell of a man, I actually became rather infuriated when having to place my reluctant Eggnog Latte order. I'm sorry, but aren't world dominating chains such as this supposed to keep some form of consistency throughout their over abundance of global locations? For instance, when I use the word non-fat with regards to which kind of milk I prefer, should I not get an understanding nod as apposed to the blank look of complete lack of understanding I was given? And when I ask for a Dirty Chai, should I really have to explain myself? Really? (Ok, maybe I've broken my oath once before this.) But believe you me, my pledge to never return to Starshits was solidified once again after discovering that a Toffee Nut Latte is considered a Christmas beverage. No.
Ok, fine. I still continued to have 'nogs at Shitbucks once a week for the entire month of December. Ok, twice a week. Ok! A lot a week. Jesus! I love eggnog. And I struggle with the concept of loyalty.
I'm getting ahead of myself, and have vastly digressed from my attempt to introduce the subject of Christmas. But first, I should really go back a month and a half, before the take over of mince pies, flickering lights, and the endless replay of Fairytale Of New York ringing in my ears.
I would like to begin with the ever anticipated visit from my ultimate Irish love (Sorry Chris) and member of my suto Irish family, Angela Mulroony. Unfortunately, I remember very little of it. Which I do believe I can therefore say, with confidence, that it must have been brilliant. I remember starting at the Alex, and I remember going to sleep far after the sun had risen. Somewhere in between there was tequila. And many mojitos. It was nice to see that nothing had changed, despite our distances.
The following weekend was reserved for my second round of "meet the parents": Chris's Mammy. It was the last day in November, and it was as if the month had decided to be nice enough to produce one final flawlessly gorgeous autumn (hey, look I'm getting the hang of it) day before giving way to winter. The perfect day for a Sunday drive through the English countryside! Irish, and myself, with Brother Irish at the wheel, made our way through hill after rolling hill, towards a destination that for the life of me I could not name. It didn't matter. I was happy just to be lounging in the back seat of a car, munching on Jelly Babies, surrounded by passing fields of sheep. So many adorable, grazing, fluffy sheep, glowing in the autumn sunlight.
The first town we drove through was adorable. It was all adorable. The churches, the town centres, the tiny streets, lined with old, crowded buildings. Adorable. When we arrived at what I now know is a town called Devizes, in South West England (I'm fairly sure this is accurate) I was eager to meet the mother. How could I not be with a woman who raised the infamous Christopher Whelan and lived to tell the tale? We were greeted by Chris's sister, Ali, and her boyfriend, Justin, and wee little baby Amelia rocking contently in the corner of the living room. Introductions were made, Bonny hugged me, then held me at arms length, to "get a good look at me". I followed her into the kitchen and offered to help with dinner, praying to God she wouldn't accept; burning your boyfriend's mother's house down doesn't exactly make for the best first impression. Instead she handed me a glass of champagne (I like her already) and asked all about me. Chris came into the room just long enough for her to take the piss out of him, quickly advancing my like to love. So that's how she did it. We spent the early evening eating and drinking and chatting and drinking some more. I don't think I've ever felt so naturally comfortable-- the bottomless wine glass probably didn't hurt. By the time we said our goodbyes, I was already planning my return, with our without Irish.
With a full belly, and a mild red wine sedation, it didn't take long for me to fall asleep as we made our way back to the city. At one point, I woke up-- mainly because Gavin purposely turned the backseat light on to get a rise out of me-- and felt incredibly happy (well, I did after I had a minor fit for being so rudely awoken). I not only had myself an Irishman with amazing parents, but two Irishmen who let me tag along on family road trips, and bug the shit out of me, which is clearly a sign of affection and great admiration.
December arrived and with it the Chelsea Beamish tradition to IMMEDIATELY adopt the perfect Christmas tree. Chris met me after work at a swanky little nursery around the corner from the Unnamed Bar that was home to the biggest variety of small to medium sized trees I had ever seen. You have your very short, your short, eye level, just above eye level, and then "tall" which was really just slightly above above eye level. In that moment I missed Kelowna. I missed giant, fatty trees that you wondered, as you unsafely strapped it to the hood of your car, if it would in fact fit through the front door. I missed home even more when I was told the price of my chosen "just above eye level" shrub. Funny thing that whole, never having to pay for a Christmas Tree. What a hoot when you finally get to. Except that I'm poor, and therefore refused to settle for such a cost. So we left "just above eye level" and carried on down the high street in search of my pine adorned (affordable) soul mate. Three stops later, we came to Clapham's friendly neighbourhood flowerman, who gave us a hefty deal on the most perfect "just above boob level" Christmas tree I had ever seen. The next night Gavin came home with Christmas lights and we all shared dinner and decorated the tree. Well Chris and I decorate the tree. Ok I decorated the tree, Chris strung the hooks through the balls, and Gavin came in to top the tree with a red, shiny star. God Bless us, everyone!
The next week, I decided to spend my mid-Christmas-countdown day off by visiting the Queen. Not a standard tradition, to my knowledge, but it occurred to me recently, that in the almost year that I have been residing in this fine city, I have barely done a single tacky tourist thing (which, I might add, perhaps isn't the worst thing). So off to Buckingham Palace I went! There's something about taking the bus that is just so satisfying-- when you're not in a rush to get anywhere and just happy to sit back and actually get to see where you're going. In london, you spend so much of your time underground, I swear, if the situation presented itself, I could probably burrow my own tunnels under this city, what with my newly acquired night vision and vermin like abilities. Also, for a girl who is as directionally challenged as myself (concernedly so), traveling the city via underground makes it impossible to ever know where you are actually going. Who knew I would pass through Chelsea in order to get to the Queen? So Chelsea is finally in Chelsea. And the world did not spontaneously combust. Although, it should have. For once again, I have been put in place so beautiful, so elegant, and so completely out of my price range. I don't deserve this.
Sloane Street. Every fashionista's heaven. And my bus just had to drive through it. Louis Vuitton, Dolce and Gabbana, Dolce and Gabbanna Kids (come on! For fuck), Jimmy Choo, Prada, Fendi, Chanel, Dior, Armani, Hermes, Gucci, Versace, Yves St Laurent… Sorry, I stopped breathing. At this point, I had forgotten all about the Queen. Fuck the Queen. Hello Valentino. But my bus just kept going, leaving behind what I truly believe to be the lifestyle that belongs to me, and will one day be mine. Why not throw salt on the wound by visiting a fucking castle that I don't even live in? Marvellous.
In fairness, it was nothing special. The statues gifted from New Zealand standing across from the Palace were more interesting, mainly because one of them was a particularly masculine female, standing next to lion, holding a machete. I'm pretty sure she was holding a machete. The Palace itself was just a massive span of building. Rather boring. I had missed the changing of the guard by an hour, which was lame, but I did get to watch a few of them mosey back and forth from their little huts for as long as my attention span could handle. What a mind numbingly terrible career. Stand and march. March and stand. Adjust rifle position. Wear ridiculous hats that probably weigh a great deal, and may even lead to eventual height deficiency. They weren't even in their traditional red guard outfit. I presume it's because of the season. A mild blue is much more fitting for the winter months. Regardless of the lacklustre scene, I took a selfie to boast about on Facebook and Instagram, and decided my time would be much better spent surrounded by proper royalty: Sir Jimmy Choo. Walking Sloane Street is just so much more depressing than watching it pass you by on a double decker. An entire street length of the most incredible designer wear, my face welling with tears as I smooshed it against window after window, drooling over every inch of hem, and pleat, and pattern, and… heel. When I saw Jimmy Choo from across the street, it couldn't be helped. It was pulling me in. I couldn't resist (so much so that I nearly got run down by a black cab). The door man welcomed me and I vomited a little. Jaysus, Mary, and a whole lot of Joseph. I imagine this is actually what euphoria feels like. I am euphoric. Or on the verge. Euphoric would be leaving this store with several bags. I will be leaving this store mourning my very working class existence. I stood in awe at each pair, ignoring the fact that I was the epitome of "What doesn't belong here". I saw the salespeople. I knew what they were thinking. I knew they knew I was wearing Primark. And they knew I knew they knew I was wearing Primark. It was time to leave. One day, my loves. One day. I slouched, heavy in my eighteen pound Timberland knock offs (that's embarrassing), and headed towards the big red bus that would take me back to where I belonged. For now anyway.
It was only days before Irish was to take the dreaded fairy back to his mother land for Christmas, and we had still not been to Winter Wonderland. This was unacceptable. Every year, Hyde Park puts on this extravagant winter fair, filled with Christmas magic, and copious amounts of mulled wine. Actually, upon arrival, it really just seems to be some kind of giant Austrian, or Danish or whatever, fair that has managed to cover the odd clown in a Santa costume, and hang holly from various roller coasters and, yes, haunted houses, and call it a Winter Wonderland. Still pretty impressive though. Endless rows of wooden huts filled with crafts, and food, and mulled wine lined the entire grounds. An entire kingdom made of ice stood in the centre of the park, which we couldn't be arsed to pay twenty quid to see inside, but I imagine it's quite lovely. We strolled around, sipping on wine and steins, munching on marzipan and chimney cake, listening to an Irish band cover Cotton Eye Joe in the Bavaria Gardens (???) and just taking it all in. It was cute. We were cute. Chris experienced his first Bratwurst (this is a literal cherry popping, not a figurative one. Just to clarify). But the wanker refused sauerkraut and onions, so we can hardly call that a true experience. Amateur. Pfft.
** It must be mentioned: the day prior to our Wonderland festivities, I discovered, in the worst possible way, that I am, unexpectedly, allergic to Aspirin. This came to my attention after a head ache at work had me popping Aspirin laced extra strength Paracetamol, causing my already generous sized head to swell double its size; most specifically my eyes and cheeks. Any photographs seen from this day, or the day following should be accompanied with a parental advisory.
Two days before the Irishman abandoned me during the holidays (this is a farce-- I am taking the piss-- I was invited, repeatedly, to join the Whelan's for a very merry Kilmore Christmas, but instead opted to be sister of the year and stay in the city with my brother), we braved one more Christmas market in South Bank. This one was cute, as well, mostly because it was set up along the Thames, and had even more food than Wonderland. But the only thing about it worth mentioning was my Duck Confit Burger with blue cheese on a sweet, brioche bun. Street food just escalated to a whole other level.
The next day I came home to the most delicious faux Christmas chicken dinner, a bouquet of festive flowers, and a Lindor chocolate ball the size of my head. There's a chance I might miss this spud head. The day he left, we exchanged the presents we weren't going to get each other: me, an impressively well picked out hat that makes me look like a hot Indiana Jones. And him, 'Irish Moss' scented beard oil. I know. Incredible.
To be honest, there was a part of me that was looking forward to having some time in the flat to myself. I am known to be that of a lone wolf by nature, so a week completely alone (minus my beloved stuffed sheep, Baaa Jangles and C-lamb-ato to keep me snuggled at night) sounded just swell. With this thought in mind, it came as quite a surprise when the Irishman's departure played out like that of a man leaving for war; his woman crying out in despair, convinced he would never return. Even after their goodbyes, she can't help but run to him as he makes his way down the dirt road towards his looming expiry for one final embrace-- except I was running to the elevator of our 2nd floor, and he was making his way to Paddington station, set to return seven days later. It was emotional.
And now, here I sit. Christmas Eve in London. Perched in front of Mr. Bean's Christmas Special, with a doner kebab and portion of chips (I presume this to be a holiday tradition somewhere). And I feel ok. At least I do now. If Josh doesn't call me to come over and drink wine soon, I'll probably break out into my World War generated tears again.
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