Silent Night Holy Night
Silent Night? Holy Night!
December 25th, 2000
3:13 a.m.
Dear Diary,
Have you ever been awakened in the wee hours by the sound of your burglar alarm going off? No? Well, let me assure you it is rather a jarring experience. Once the very loud and repetitive 'Paaarp! Paaarp! Paaarp!' jolts you into unwilling consciousness, your first reaction is to panic. You equate the alarm with an intrusion. After all, that's why you pay money for the damn thing in the first place.
Having panicked, you grope the bedside table for your Walther PPK and come to the sudden and poignant realization that you've been having Walter Mittyesque dreams of being James Bond again. You don't own a Walther PPK. In fact, as you aren't an American citizen, you don't even have the right to the second amendment. You don't own a gun at all. The half-eaten avocado sandwich your three year old daughter left on the bedside table several hours ago is a poor substitute. It will have to do.
Clutching your oozing sandwich, you begin to move cautiously down the hallway. Your first course of action is to disengage the alarm with the understanding that if you do not your hearing will be permanently impaired should the racket continue to sound. You also begin to wonder why the noise has failed to rouse any other members of your family, with the possible exception of your aforementioned three year old daughter whose door, you notice, is slightly ajar. She probably went to the bathroom in the night again. I mean who wouldn't after eating half an avocado sandwich before going to sleep?
Once you disengage the alarm, you really start to awaken. That is to say, at the very least you become more fully aware of the psychological advantages to be gained by wearing a full set of clothing. It is an unpleasant feeling to be caught in a compromising position clad only in your underwear. Nevertheless, you tighten your grip on the sandwich and listen intently for the sounds of unlawful entry: the scuffling of feet, the rummaging of drawers, the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked behind your left ear.
When none of these sounds are immediately forthcoming, you start slowly to move from room to room keeping close to the walls, silently gliding doors open and flicking the lights on as you go. Your vision adjusts to the illumination fairly quickly after the first room and this is the one advantage you, an unarmed citizen, has in a situation like this. Any burglar found to be hiding in the darkness will be unable to see for a few precious seconds once your tracked and recessed ceiling lighting comes into play. Your attack, should you wish to pursue such an option, will be aided by the fact you can see him before he sees you.
It is, therefore, fairly stressful when you clear room after room and find nothing. On the one hand, you are relieved your family is one step closer to safety with each passing moment, but your relief is short-lived as you need to ready yourself for the next room and the increased potential for danger that lies within. This is very much like a roller-coaster ride, both mentally and physically.
At last you reach the kitchen. This is the last room to clear. It is also the room in which some real sense of safety may be obtained - unless of course all your kitchen knives are secured safely in the dishwasher. On the other hand, maybe the burglar has purloined the biggest knife. At any rate, if the burglar is in the house, he is in the kitchen. There is nowhere else he can be. This is it! Decision time!
You become a coiled steel spring, ready for action. Your muscles tense and every sense is more alert than it has ever been before, with the possible exception of that time ten or twelve years ago when you discovered that the girl you were seeing had a herculean boyfriend who had just arrived home early from watching WWF live with a bunch of drunken buddies. Anyway... You crouch down as close to the floor as you can and reach up for the light switch. Across the kitchen the full harvest moon is shining brightly into the back yard and you can see the french windows have been jimmied open, allowing the cool night air to blow freely into the house. Did the burglar flee into the night once the alarm sounded or is he still here hiding just around the corner? A movement catches your eye inside the house and just to the left of the french windows. Your heart stops, momentarily. But James Bond wouldn't hesitate. Nor will you. You switch on the lights and pounce forward with what you hope is a disorienting scream reminiscent of a clumsy banshee having stubbed its toe in a frozen forest....
"Daddy. What are you doing?"
3:17 a.m.
You know? I suppose I didn't really believe the house had been burgled. Bad things happen only to the other guy. Right? Of course they do. It was only my dear little insomniac daughter that had opened the windows into the back garden and set off the alarm. How sweet!
"Victoria! What on earth are you doing?"
"Daddy! Daddy! The moon is shiny. I want to see the cat."
"Eh?" I had expected a disclaimer of sorts about Santa or something but this was a disjointed thought process if I had ever heard one. The poor dear must be sleepwalking. "What are you talking about? What cat?"
"The one Mommy wants to kill. The moon is shiny. I want to see it pooping in the sandbox."
"The moon?"
"No, Daddy! The cat!"
"Oh. Well Mommy doesn't really want to kill the cat. She just says that. As we're on the topic though, perhaps its best we put you back to bed before we both die. Hmm?"
"Daddy?"
"Yes, heart of my heart?"
"I don't feel well."
Ah yes! The old 'I don't feel well and so now I get to do anything I want including staying up to see the cat poop in the sandbox' ploy. You can't fool me. I was young once too you know.
"Daddy I think I'm gonna hurl."
3:19 a.m.
There are times, Dear Diary, when I really believe it is possible to avoid unpleasantness with a little pro-active thinking. Not that there was any malaforethought involved with the creation of the avocado sandwich with which my daughter had been supplied just prior to her bedtime, but I do honestly believe that small children should not be allowed to roam the house freely with snacks before they are tucked away into their jammies for the night. I would have discussions with my wife come the light of dawn.
I picked up the poor dear, switched off the light and closed the french windows. She was already in heavenly sleep once again and looked so tender and mild. Only I knew that this was a false innocence and that underneath her smiling, sleeping countenance lay the heart and soul of a demon child. It was best that I tiptoe quietly back to her room lest she unleash a fresh hell upon me. I hadn't gone two steps when I trod unsuspectingly on some sharp and pointy object left lying in ambush on the kitchen tiles. I nearly bit off three fingers trying to stifle a scream and it was at that precise moment the silence of the night was once again rent asunder.
"Yes? Yes? What is it? Who is it? What do you mean by calling me at this time of night?" I hissed into the phone. This had better be important.
"Merry Christmas, sir" came a cheerful nasal whine over the ether. "This is the alarm company calling. Is eveything alright?"
No one has the right to be cheerful at that time of the morning.
"Is everything alright? Did you just ask me if... Well, let me see. If you can describe standing in your kitchen clad only in your underwear while covered in luminous green vomit at 3:00 a.m as alright, then yes, I suppose things are perfectly fine. If you can describe the experience of having trodden on a toy stegosaurus in the dark while returning your insanely inquisitive daughter back to bed as the picture of perfection, then yes, things may be described as absolutely ducky. Here is the password for the alarm to relieve you of any further responsibility in the matter. Good night!"
3:23 a.m.
"Who was that?"
"What?"
"Who was that? Just now. On the phone."
"What do you mean 'Who was that?' That, dear, was the alarm company. Who do you think it was?"
"What did they want?"
"Are you serious? Do you honestly mean to tell me you didn't hear the alarm going off?"
"What's that green stuff?"
"Puke. Victoria puked."
"She shouldn't be out of bed at this time. I told you not to stuff her full of chocolates after supper."
"Now listen here....!"
"Are you going to wash it off?"
"No! I think its rather becoming. Perhaps I'll wear it until next Hallowe'en and go as a rotted corpse. If you notice, I am actually standing next to the shower with the door open."
"I can't see. The moon isn't shiny enough in the room."
"Oh... go and kill a cat."
3:27 a.m.
I was so tired when I stepped into the shower that I nearly drowned standing up. The only thing that prevented this was that each time I nodded off with the soothing hot water coursing down around me I kept listing to starboard into the wall. I knew both of the kids would be up in a couple of hours and all my energy would be spent trying to stop them from ripping open the Christmas gifts until everyone was all dressed and ready. Probably around 4:00 p.m . or so.
Rather drowsily, I stepped out of the nice warm shower and reached for a towel. I glanced through the darkness to discover that Victoria had once again resurrected herself from her bedroom and crawled under the bedcovers in mine, leaving no room for me. No matter. The cool night air now felt like a cold Antarctic gale and I was suddenly and incontrovertibly wide awake. Visions of returning to bed and catching up on dreams of pointing my Walther PPK at a scantily clad Octopussy after catching her in a compromising position disappeared as quickly as had the water down the plug hole.
Instead, I sallied forth into the living room, flipped on the TV and tuned it to BBC America. Maybe I could catch the Queen's Christmas address being broadcast live. I settled back onto the sofa for the briefest of moments until a movement just to the right of the portico caught my eye. My heart stopped momentarily and then I let out a deep, long-suffering sigh.
"Daddy. Gimme some milk!"
December 25th, 2000
3:13 a.m.
Dear Diary,
Have you ever been awakened in the wee hours by the sound of your burglar alarm going off? No? Well, let me assure you it is rather a jarring experience. Once the very loud and repetitive 'Paaarp! Paaarp! Paaarp!' jolts you into unwilling consciousness, your first reaction is to panic. You equate the alarm with an intrusion. After all, that's why you pay money for the damn thing in the first place.
Having panicked, you grope the bedside table for your Walther PPK and come to the sudden and poignant realization that you've been having Walter Mittyesque dreams of being James Bond again. You don't own a Walther PPK. In fact, as you aren't an American citizen, you don't even have the right to the second amendment. You don't own a gun at all. The half-eaten avocado sandwich your three year old daughter left on the bedside table several hours ago is a poor substitute. It will have to do.
Clutching your oozing sandwich, you begin to move cautiously down the hallway. Your first course of action is to disengage the alarm with the understanding that if you do not your hearing will be permanently impaired should the racket continue to sound. You also begin to wonder why the noise has failed to rouse any other members of your family, with the possible exception of your aforementioned three year old daughter whose door, you notice, is slightly ajar. She probably went to the bathroom in the night again. I mean who wouldn't after eating half an avocado sandwich before going to sleep?
Once you disengage the alarm, you really start to awaken. That is to say, at the very least you become more fully aware of the psychological advantages to be gained by wearing a full set of clothing. It is an unpleasant feeling to be caught in a compromising position clad only in your underwear. Nevertheless, you tighten your grip on the sandwich and listen intently for the sounds of unlawful entry: the scuffling of feet, the rummaging of drawers, the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked behind your left ear.
When none of these sounds are immediately forthcoming, you start slowly to move from room to room keeping close to the walls, silently gliding doors open and flicking the lights on as you go. Your vision adjusts to the illumination fairly quickly after the first room and this is the one advantage you, an unarmed citizen, has in a situation like this. Any burglar found to be hiding in the darkness will be unable to see for a few precious seconds once your tracked and recessed ceiling lighting comes into play. Your attack, should you wish to pursue such an option, will be aided by the fact you can see him before he sees you.
It is, therefore, fairly stressful when you clear room after room and find nothing. On the one hand, you are relieved your family is one step closer to safety with each passing moment, but your relief is short-lived as you need to ready yourself for the next room and the increased potential for danger that lies within. This is very much like a roller-coaster ride, both mentally and physically.
At last you reach the kitchen. This is the last room to clear. It is also the room in which some real sense of safety may be obtained - unless of course all your kitchen knives are secured safely in the dishwasher. On the other hand, maybe the burglar has purloined the biggest knife. At any rate, if the burglar is in the house, he is in the kitchen. There is nowhere else he can be. This is it! Decision time!
You become a coiled steel spring, ready for action. Your muscles tense and every sense is more alert than it has ever been before, with the possible exception of that time ten or twelve years ago when you discovered that the girl you were seeing had a herculean boyfriend who had just arrived home early from watching WWF live with a bunch of drunken buddies. Anyway... You crouch down as close to the floor as you can and reach up for the light switch. Across the kitchen the full harvest moon is shining brightly into the back yard and you can see the french windows have been jimmied open, allowing the cool night air to blow freely into the house. Did the burglar flee into the night once the alarm sounded or is he still here hiding just around the corner? A movement catches your eye inside the house and just to the left of the french windows. Your heart stops, momentarily. But James Bond wouldn't hesitate. Nor will you. You switch on the lights and pounce forward with what you hope is a disorienting scream reminiscent of a clumsy banshee having stubbed its toe in a frozen forest....
"Daddy. What are you doing?"
3:17 a.m.
You know? I suppose I didn't really believe the house had been burgled. Bad things happen only to the other guy. Right? Of course they do. It was only my dear little insomniac daughter that had opened the windows into the back garden and set off the alarm. How sweet!
"Victoria! What on earth are you doing?"
"Daddy! Daddy! The moon is shiny. I want to see the cat."
"Eh?" I had expected a disclaimer of sorts about Santa or something but this was a disjointed thought process if I had ever heard one. The poor dear must be sleepwalking. "What are you talking about? What cat?"
"The one Mommy wants to kill. The moon is shiny. I want to see it pooping in the sandbox."
"The moon?"
"No, Daddy! The cat!"
"Oh. Well Mommy doesn't really want to kill the cat. She just says that. As we're on the topic though, perhaps its best we put you back to bed before we both die. Hmm?"
"Daddy?"
"Yes, heart of my heart?"
"I don't feel well."
Ah yes! The old 'I don't feel well and so now I get to do anything I want including staying up to see the cat poop in the sandbox' ploy. You can't fool me. I was young once too you know.
"Daddy I think I'm gonna hurl."
3:19 a.m.
There are times, Dear Diary, when I really believe it is possible to avoid unpleasantness with a little pro-active thinking. Not that there was any malaforethought involved with the creation of the avocado sandwich with which my daughter had been supplied just prior to her bedtime, but I do honestly believe that small children should not be allowed to roam the house freely with snacks before they are tucked away into their jammies for the night. I would have discussions with my wife come the light of dawn.
I picked up the poor dear, switched off the light and closed the french windows. She was already in heavenly sleep once again and looked so tender and mild. Only I knew that this was a false innocence and that underneath her smiling, sleeping countenance lay the heart and soul of a demon child. It was best that I tiptoe quietly back to her room lest she unleash a fresh hell upon me. I hadn't gone two steps when I trod unsuspectingly on some sharp and pointy object left lying in ambush on the kitchen tiles. I nearly bit off three fingers trying to stifle a scream and it was at that precise moment the silence of the night was once again rent asunder.
"Yes? Yes? What is it? Who is it? What do you mean by calling me at this time of night?" I hissed into the phone. This had better be important.
"Merry Christmas, sir" came a cheerful nasal whine over the ether. "This is the alarm company calling. Is eveything alright?"
No one has the right to be cheerful at that time of the morning.
"Is everything alright? Did you just ask me if... Well, let me see. If you can describe standing in your kitchen clad only in your underwear while covered in luminous green vomit at 3:00 a.m as alright, then yes, I suppose things are perfectly fine. If you can describe the experience of having trodden on a toy stegosaurus in the dark while returning your insanely inquisitive daughter back to bed as the picture of perfection, then yes, things may be described as absolutely ducky. Here is the password for the alarm to relieve you of any further responsibility in the matter. Good night!"
3:23 a.m.
"Who was that?"
"What?"
"Who was that? Just now. On the phone."
"What do you mean 'Who was that?' That, dear, was the alarm company. Who do you think it was?"
"What did they want?"
"Are you serious? Do you honestly mean to tell me you didn't hear the alarm going off?"
"What's that green stuff?"
"Puke. Victoria puked."
"She shouldn't be out of bed at this time. I told you not to stuff her full of chocolates after supper."
"Now listen here....!"
"Are you going to wash it off?"
"No! I think its rather becoming. Perhaps I'll wear it until next Hallowe'en and go as a rotted corpse. If you notice, I am actually standing next to the shower with the door open."
"I can't see. The moon isn't shiny enough in the room."
"Oh... go and kill a cat."
3:27 a.m.
I was so tired when I stepped into the shower that I nearly drowned standing up. The only thing that prevented this was that each time I nodded off with the soothing hot water coursing down around me I kept listing to starboard into the wall. I knew both of the kids would be up in a couple of hours and all my energy would be spent trying to stop them from ripping open the Christmas gifts until everyone was all dressed and ready. Probably around 4:00 p.m . or so.
Rather drowsily, I stepped out of the nice warm shower and reached for a towel. I glanced through the darkness to discover that Victoria had once again resurrected herself from her bedroom and crawled under the bedcovers in mine, leaving no room for me. No matter. The cool night air now felt like a cold Antarctic gale and I was suddenly and incontrovertibly wide awake. Visions of returning to bed and catching up on dreams of pointing my Walther PPK at a scantily clad Octopussy after catching her in a compromising position disappeared as quickly as had the water down the plug hole.
Instead, I sallied forth into the living room, flipped on the TV and tuned it to BBC America. Maybe I could catch the Queen's Christmas address being broadcast live. I settled back onto the sofa for the briefest of moments until a movement just to the right of the portico caught my eye. My heart stopped momentarily and then I let out a deep, long-suffering sigh.
"Daddy. Gimme some milk!"
posted by alex malcolm at 11:37 am
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