10 Things That Never Happened (Material World #1)

by Alexis Hall

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cast nasturtiums on your…on your big book of parties.”

“You’re the real spirit of Christmas you, aren’t you? I can just imagine yez as a kid running downstairs in your jammies ripping open your presents and then saying mam, mam is it tax deductible?”

“No, I just expressed mild surprise that when I said hey, d’you want us to give you a hand with your party, you thought that meant hey, d’you want us to read through a stack of paperwork thicker than the Bible.”

It’s all making me strangely determined to throw the best party he’s ever fucking seen. Which, in a way, means his whole terrible management style is actually motivating. And isn’t that a kick in the balls?

“He’s always been perfectly nice to me. I just suspect he may carve up hitchhikers in his spare time, that’s all.”

With tremendous strength of will, I don’t join in the chorus of people saying “no, you bloody wouldn’t.”

“They’re just showing they care.” “Then I wish they showed it in a less infuriating way.”

Are you going to set up a conference call with the Christmas trees?”

“If I’m not back in half an hour,” I tell him, “send the dogs.” “You’re not funny.” I smile in a way I hope says I am and you secretly know it, then head off to check out the venue.

“Sam, it’s a Christmas party. It’s a holiday where people hang lights off things that don’t normally have lights on them and put giant plastic reindeer on their lawns. Over the top is the point.”

He’s got annoyingly nice eyes, actually. Or maybe they just stand out because the rest of him’s such an acquired taste.

me. He’s not a man whose glass is half empty, he’s a man who wants to know why you’ve given him a glass when he ordered the bottle.

“Sometimes, though, when you try things you don’t think you’ll like, they’re not as bad as you thought.”

“It’ll give you something to complain about. You love complaining about things.”

“Well, you’re not pretending to be grateful, so you must not hate me either.” “You’re right, I don’t hate you. Let’s get married.”

“We’re having the Wagyu Beef,” I tell him. “One between us, like.” “We are bloody not,” says Jonathan immediately. “Ignore him, he’s having a funny turn.”

“There’s also nothing right with a margherita because a margherita is a nothing pizza. It’s just a cheese and tomato sandwich with extra steps.”

“Ah yes.” Barbara Jane smirks. “An enormous strap-on, just what Christmas needs.”

“I can’t speak for Dad, but what I’m doing is watching three idiots trying to lift an entire Douglas fir onto a Ford transit van.”

“So you want to celebrate,” asks Les, “our special, first family Christmas in years with a headless Christmas tree?”

“This is so dangerous,” says Barbara Jane. “I love it.”

You should go inside and rest.” “What, and send the cat out to help with the tree?”

“I’m increasingly concerned we won’t be done until next Christmas.”

From inside, it looks like even more of a disaster. Del and Les are supporting the base while Jonathan and Barbara Jane are pulling from the front but Jonathan’s garden has been designed for looking nice in brochures, not for having a Norwegian spruce lugged across it, and I’m pretty sure his flowerbeds aren’t making it through the evening alive.

“You say a lot of things, Granddad, but I think the one that you’re getting at is you can cut a bit off but you can’t cut a bit on.”

“Is your solution to my house being far too full of Christmas tree to make it even more full of Christmas tree?”

“Time”—Jonathan’s ticking things off on his fingers—“dignity and, in the likely event one of us falls off the roof, our lives.”

“It’ll be a Christmas we’ll never forget.” “Especially if one of us dies,” adds Barbara Jane.

“What’s the point of having a house, if not to let your family wreck it?” “That’s the spirit,” says Del.

“It’s an employment law issue. I’d be creating a hostile working environment.” “Jonathan,” I tell him, “you already do create a hostile working environment. You’re a walking hostile working environment.”

“You realise that’s the kind of thing you can pay people to do for you.” “Oh, that’ll be touching. Do you like the turkey? I bunged a stranger fifty quid to pick it out for me.”

I give a bit of a yelp and Gollum looks around like he’s worried we’re under attack.

The rule is, you’ve got to spend all day making it, and then complain about how no one appreciates the fact you spent all day making it. It’s part of the magic.”

“It’s Saturday, it’s nearly Christmas, I’m living on cornflakes and the ghost of a cheese sandwich—of course I’m being ridiculous.”

“What’s a garland?” I ask. “I’ll admit I’m not completely sure, but I think it’s tinsel for the middle class.”

“It’s a glass ball for a Christmas tree. What’s un-normal about it?” “Firstly, it’s covered in painted ballerinas. Secondly, it’s fifty quid.” “For a set?” “No, for one.” For a brief moment, he gets very, very London-by-way-of-Sheffield. “You’re having a laugh.” I show him the label. “Fucking hell.” “Are you not extremely rich?” I tease him. “Yes, but I’m not extremely stupid. Now put that down.”

In a fit of barely concealed rage, Jonathan picks up a spindly reindeer with pink shoes and candles on its antlers. “Go on,” he says. “Guess.” It’s bigger than the bauble, but then again, it’s also uglier. “Hundred quid.” He points upwards. “It’s never more than a hundred quid.” “Hundred and forty.”

think I’ve been here too long, because they’ve tricked me into thinking that’s a reasonable price.”

“I must be reading that wrong.” “I don’t think you are.” “They’re never a grand.” “Back away and pretend you haven’t seen anything.”

“There’s only six of them. What’ve they got inside, cocaine?”

“Right,” he says, “new plan. We pay for this little fellow, and then we’re going to B&Q.”

mean, don’t get me wrong, I did think he was cute, but I’m not sure I’m ready for the awesome responsibility of owning a fake rodent with festive headgear.”

Although that leaves me at a bit of a loose end because while I don’t want to be standoffish, I also don’t want to be inserting myself into somebody else’s big family ritual. Even if I have been given a guinea pig of my very own to participate with.

“And leave Gollum out of this.” “He’s a cat. He’s not an emotionally damaged teenager whose parents are in the middle of a messy divorce.”

“Jonathan, are you seriously telling me that you’re holding playground bullshit against your dad nearly twenty years later?”

“You’re not stuffing it. You’re fisting it with a lemon.”

you cannot send this chicken to its grave with a lemon wedged halfway up it and a sprig of rosemary poking out its bumhole.” He laughs again. “Oh, come on. You’re not set off by the word bumhole?” And again. “You fucking are. You great bumhole.”

“A recipe told you to do this?” I repeat. “Where’d you find it? Chicken Haters Monthly? Serial Killer Magazine? A banned porno from the 1970s?”

“Jonathan, is this recipe for kids?” “I’m sure the child is optional. And besides,” he adds defensively, “I’m following the adult instructions as well.” “Nowhere in this recipe does it say violate poultry.”

Seeing Jonathan like this is a bit like running into your dentist buying milk. In that it’s objectively unremarkable but, somehow, completely mind-blowing.