Your father, he’s another one of them.
If you happen to come across this blog and see “Day 3” first, go back and read everything from the very beginning. And when the time comes, don’t say you had not been warned.
Now it’s time to drag you through the Elliott Christmas routine.
My family has this awful tradition. They invite guests for Christmas. You know how you sometimes read about such families and think: oh no, it can't be true, can it. Welcome to the Elliott household, you lucky sods! My parents do that every Christmas. The guests are always the same, they’ve been the same for five years at least. In mid-November my mom starts calling them and they all say yes. “Ah but of course Sarah dear, you didn’t even have to call”. Does my head in whenever I think about it.
But that is not even the worst part. By far the worst bit is that they all arrive one bloody week before Christmas. They live here. Sleep in the living room and unused bedrooms. Eat with us. Do their Christmas shopping. To use the Internetspeak: leechers. I know my parents are rich, but you have to wonder sometimes.
And this time I hate them even more. Because one of them is a murderer. Or a victim. I don’t even know which is worse. Imagine inviting a murderer to your house. For Christmas. That’s what we’ve come to.
Marie Elliott is a modern… Right, we’ve been through that. What I mean to say is that I do not exclude myself. I’m on the list.
Henry Elliott is my dad. He is a Holocaust denier. Can you imagine that? The sick bastard can’t eat like a human being, farts in public and hates Jews. No manners. Bad-tempered. Rich. Hates being caught in the rain. Does he get my Christmas present? Unfortunately, yes.
Sarah Elliott is my mom. Terrible moodswings and personally I have no idea how they can survive each other. Deep down, she is a kind and warm person, but there’s very little you can talk to her about. Weather, maybe gardening. Last year she read Fifty Shades of Grey. Atheist. Christmas present? Yes.
HILDA and TOM.
These two go together. Friends of my mom. Both over fifty. Quiet and always helpful. Embarrassed about staying here for one whole week. Wake up earlier than others. Sit in the kitchen reading to each other articles from the Guardian. Harmless. I don’t mind them. Christmas presents? One for both of them.
Their nephew. In love with me. Christmas present? Let me think about that one.
Now who the hell is Dennis I do not know. Probably a pervert. Over 40, my dad’s classmate from all those years back. Not really ugly, but the guy just isn’t very likeable. Impenetrable. Works in IT. Likes computer games. Made a few crude passes. Last Christmas smirked at me over dinner, then told my dad I like him. FFS. If that’s funny in his sad little world, he should stuff that joke up his own backside. Single, obviously. Christmas present? No fucking way.
Emily works for my dad. Emily is interesting. I assume (and I think I’m right about this one) that Emily is or was my dad’s lover. How my dad can have lovers is a different matter and let us not go there, but Emily is the sort of blonde who appears stupid but is in fact very smart. Knows what she wants. Reads Tolstoy. I quite like her but I don’t want to be like her. Christmas present? I guess not.
Emily’s husband. Teaches medicine at London University and could be a struggling alcoholic. Can sometimes crack a good deadpan joke, but overall a bit of a bore. Emily being such a lively woman and all, she must be sleeping with a log late at night. Two years ago over breakfast Peter told me he likes Disney cartoons. Men. Christmas present? Nope.
Their daughter. Everyone finds her pretty, which of course she is not. But boys are dumb, so you never know. My age, but we rarely talk. Plays the piano. Likes awful pink lipstick that makes her look like a cheap hooker from Colfax Avenue. Christmas present? Yes, a fashion magazine.
My aunt. Makes great tea. Always enjoys her stay here. Cares about no one, no one cares about her. However, when you ask her something, she always knows the answer. Good person to have when someone dies (would know what to do), so hopefully it’s not her. Definitely not an atheist. Not much else to say really. Christmas present? A pair of gloves. Maybe a teapot. Maybe a pack of Christmas candles.
And that’s your lot. Eleven murderers. Each one with a chance. Remember, darlings, when someone tells you they can’t do it – don’t believe them. They are lying. Everybody can do that. When the time comes and when the opportunity presents itself. Everybody can do that.
Say, on a Christmas eve…
P.S. 16 days.