Standing in the bank, I got pissed off at the size of the queue. The bank was crowded. In front of me was a really wee old lady, she was wearing a wee pink woolly hat and leaning on a stick. We had about nine people to go in front and I decided to tell the wee old woman to sit down.

 

“You go sit in a seat and I will hold your place for you” I assured her, she thanked me and hobbled off to the seating area.

 

The queue started to gather up behind me. Then finally it was my turn, which technically is the old lady’s turn so I turned round and shouted “Hey there! come on it’s your turn”

 

The old woman got up smiling and headed towards me when a fat woman in a big furry hat and woolly scarf poked me in the back and barked “Actually that’s queue jumping”

 

“No, I held her place because I was being nice, I let her sit down and I held her position” I snapped back “Oh and by the way never poke me in the back again”

 

“Well technically she isn’t actually in the queue” the fat middle class posh accent argued back. The old lady staggered off to the teller looking quite distressed at the situation.

 

“Ok, technically you don’t have a conscience, what are you the queue Nazi? The woman is old and infirm, I let her sit down… what part of this are you not getting fatty? I shouted.

 

“I am of Jewish decent and I find that comment offensive” she smugly quipped.

 

“Well technically we are all of Jewish descent, Jesus was a Jew and we are all his children so unless you are claiming to be actually Jewish then deal with it, and as far as I know Jewish people are either Jews or not, there is never really a half way declaration on that situation. And I still think you are a queue Nazi, so shut up fatty you are annoying people because I helped an old lady” I shouted.

 

The bank tellers were watching the situation develop, the other people in the queue were tutting and making exasperated noises, either at me or at the fat furry woman, I didn’t know or care.

 

Then it was my turn and I was being served and at that point the wee old lady with a stick came over to me and thanked me for my help, she then turned to the Queue Nazi and said with the most polite voice I have ever heard “You my dear are an affront to human nature, this lady is a good Samaritan, you are a bad spiteful unhappy woman and your hat looks like a cat” and off she went with her stick!

 

I laughed out loud. The Queue Nazi stood there embarrassed and everyone smiled as the old lady walked slowly to the automatic doors. She went through them, turned and waved at me through the plate glass windows.

 

I waved back and stuck my tongue out at the Queue Nazi and left the bank as well.

A good day all round as far as I am concerned.

 

I finally got my Christmas tree up. Husband did drag it out of the cupboard and huffily dumped it on the carpet. I clapped my hands, I love my tree…he hates it.

Husband has an aversion to all things Christmassy and it annoys me to death. I felt like getting a bobble from the tree and shoving it down his throat.

 

I am not really prepared for the ‘big day’ as Ashley is in charge of the food and I am in charge of the presents. Ashley is getting a new computer and she has decided not to buy it till January as she will get more for her cash. Husband and I have declared a no present zone, he won’t buy me and I won’t buy him …anything.

 

I don’t need anything and don’t want it either. It’s a waste of cash.

 

So only my mum and dad are getting a gift this year.

 

I can’t believe it’s another year already. It seems like last month Ashley was singing in the school choir. Standing in her lovely green uniform and singing carols, me with a wee tear in my eye... Where did the time go?

 

Life goes too fast for me…I will 47 soon. The age my mother died at.

My best mate Monica showed me a brochure for a very expensive spa in Central London. I don’t fancy it, but I didn’t tell her that as she was so excited. I have no intention of paying £250 to wear someone else’s over sized towelling bath robe, and to let some skinny chic throw hot stones at me or rub oils into my scalp.

 

The salon is based on the smells and texture of Bali and to be honest it would be cheaper to go actually go to Bali.

I have never really been a big fan of the Spa, I hate the fact you have get undressed in a wee bamboo sheeted room and let some demented female pummel your back. You then leave the place and hit the streets with a greasy back and a sticky scalp, all whilst smelling of bergamot.

 

It’s a big con and men don’t fall for it for one real reason – a woman rubbing their naked skin is foreplay to them.

 

They fail to grasp the nature of stimulated lymph nodes and end up with an unwanted embarrassing erection whilst a young sexy female is pouring warm oil over their torso and I don’t blame them.

 

Men aren’t used to being naked and getting stroked without some sort of sexual payoff at the end of it. There is a reason that most brothels are based in massage parlours!

 

I sometimes feel some women like a warm near naked massage as some form of human contact, maybe they need to feel touched. Although the premise isn’t actually erotic it does fulfil some emptiness in their sexual lives somewhere.

 

I am not spending cash on a spa, I am going to ask my husband to massage me and if he gets horny and wants sex as we do this…then that’s a result in my books. At least his bathrobe is clean and I can fall asleep straight afterwards!

Is it an age thing? Or does everyone hate shopping at this time of year? I get hot, sweaty and really annoyed at people who bang about and whack me with their heavy shopping bags. They ignore all politeness and manners; they shove, push and just rudely batter each other in the quest to get some shitty stuff at Christmas.

 

The shite Christmas songs wail annoyingly over every stores loudspeaker, there are kids running wildly or whingeing endlessly as I try to figure out what to buy for my husband.

 

I am starting to hate Christmas. That’s a bad sign, I am old and grumpy.

 

One of my favourite Christmas’s was in 1989. Ashley was three years old and at that age where she so believed in Santa and we owned a pub in Glasgow’s East End.

 

The pub was all dressed up with decorations and a big tree set in the middle of the bar. Ashley had made her own wee decorations, a Santa made of cotton wool and a body of red cardboard. It stood pride of place at the top of the tree.

 

We had planned a big Christmas dinner in the flat as the pub closed on a Sunday between 2pm and 6.30pm back in those days. It was the licensing laws and Christmas day fell on a Sunday that year.

 

We had my cousin Sammy, his girlfriend Pauline, husband’s cousin Stevie, our mate Andy, the barman Wullie, his girlfriend Michelle and their son Robert all coming for lunch.

 

I hade never cooked for so many people and I was so excited.

 

Andy decided he didn’t want turkey and requested lasagne, Ashley was a vegetarian and she was getting a special meal of vegetables in filo pastry and I was getting nervous!

 

My cousin Sammy had set the table and kept Ashley occupied, she was so happy playing with all her toys that she got that morning. Being three was great for her, all the people in the bar adored her and with a big family she got so much presents it’s was over whelming to be honest. I have a video of her opening her presents that morning and she burst into tears! There was just so much stuff.

 

She was exhausted opening gifts; she was deluged with Playmobil toys which were her favourites. She also got a dolls house and all the little people to go with it and just was just some of the gifts. It seemed a toy shop had been emptied and transferred its stock to our living room floor.

 

The day went great though, Sammy managed to help run the bar and clear my living room of furniture, whilst checking on the dinner with me. Sammy and I had been raised together; he was more like a younger brother than a cousin.

 

His parents were dead, his father killed himself under a train in 1980 and his mother killed herself with pills in 1983, and my mum had been murdered in 1982.

Sammy and I had been through such crap in our young lives, and we huddled together like a wee family. He had lived with me since he was 18 years old and before that we had lived together as kids. I loved him and he was so good with Ashley, he adored her and she truly loved her Uncle Sammy.

 

He would pick her up and she would wrap her legs around him and cuddle into him tight till she fell asleep on his shoulder. Sammy would simply carry her around and refuse to put her in her cot, he loved holding her. Sometimes he would just wrap a blanket around her body and keep her with him till he finally had to get her into bed.

 

That Christmas was great, we ordered some really fancy Champagne and set the table perfectly. All the guests arrived and the whole dinner went great, I was exhausted and we knew we had to open the pub back up at 6.30pm that night.

 

Everyone had a great time and although the house looked trashed we all agreed it was a great time.

 

Sammy cleared up for me and got Ashley to bed as husband and I went down to open up the bar again for the late shift. The place was busy as hell and I wanted to go upstairs and play with my daughter but work came first as always.

I knew Sammy would be good with her, they would watch a video, she would get her bath and he would have her tucked up for us coming up after 11pm shutting time.

 

We came up after midnight as it was hard getting rid of the late night revellers. Sammy was lying in bed with Ashley, both of them fast asleep; all her toys were spread out on the carpet. The dolls house was laid out perfectly, the mummy and daddy standing beside the two wee children, the furniture all neatly arranged.

 

I looked at Sammy asleep and smiled; he had obviously created his own wee perfect family in the dolls house. A family he never managed to create or enjoy in real life.

 

Sammy is no longer with us.

I had lost touch with him after we left the bar in 1994. We never spoke for years and the next time I saw him was in a coffin.

 

He had started taking heroin in 1992 and eventually took some contaminated heroin the summer of 2000, he died days later.

I hated his heroin habit but assumed he would live long enough to get clean.

 

I miss him, but still can see his happy face on that video; I watch him as he is carrying Ashley on his hip and dancing her around the room as she squeals with happiness.

 

“Sammy, I am going to dance like this with you when we get married” Ashley can be heard shouting over the music.

 

“You can’t marry me, I am your uncle and you are a Princess” he laughs back.

 

“But I love you Sammy” she pouts.

 

“I love you too, now sing for me” he laughs as he swings her round and her blonde hair flies behind her, her legs firmly on his hips and his arms holding her tight.

 

I freeze the video at that moment and stare at his face. It looks sad, and I never noticed that before, he was always sad somewhere inside.

 

At least he was loved. I miss him and that will always be my favourite Christmas.

Leeds was lovely, but I am glad to be home. I have a sore throat and chesty cough and feel like shit. I had to get up today and drag my carcass awake. I managed to fix my hair nice and get my entire make up done as I was going to STV to do a comedy thing to camera. I felt like sleeping all day and ignoring my career and fuck TV shows. But I was good and did it, my body feels awful.

 

Baby Abi, (she isn’t a baby anymore she is four years old) came over and sat and watched Ratatouille the latest Pixar movie and loved every minute of it. I then put up the ironing board, covered it and let her paint for ages. She loves painting and the ironing board is perfect for adjusting to her height.

 

I have two days off before I head off to London. I am attending Christmas parties all this week, I have one tomorrow in Glasgow, then another on Thursday, one in London on Friday, another in London on Saturday and finally another one in London on Monday! I will party-ed out.

 

I am not very good at parties, I don’t really socialise well. I know I should but I am shit at it. You would think someone who talks for a living would be fun, but not me. I get insecure at parties and the more insecure I get the more inappropriate I become.

 

For instance, once at a party I got so shy and strange I asked a woman if she really wanted to be married to the stupid husband she introduced me to. Then I laughed out loud when her husband told me she was infertile, I didn’t mean to laugh but it was so insensitive of him to tell me and I got awkward and giggled.

 

I hope I behave better this year. I am going to brush up on my socialising skills.