Christmas with Bev and Carol

   Carol turned the roast potatoes and put them back into the oven.
   'Do you ever clean it?' I asked, through the black smoke billowing out.
   'Can't,' said Carol, 'Cleaning stuff makes me cough.'
   'Oh!' I said, with my hand over my nose and mouth.
   'Want some fizz?'
   'Why not?'
   Carol was not used to cooking.  It was her first Christmas dinner.  It was New Year's Eve and we were spending it with friends.  What better time to celbrate Christmas?
   The turkey had been half-price, as had the crackers and party-poppers.  The Christmas tree was still up, with some of its needles still attached.  Perfect.
   I was not much of a cook and neither was Carol, but we had years of vicarious experience behind us, not to mention Delia for emergency measurements and timings.  So we were confident we could produce something edible for our guests, who would be arriving in about two hours. (All time is relative, as you know.)
   There would be Dave, Rick, Michelle and Andy. It would be great.  I had always dreamed of having a Christmas with my friends.  This way, we didn't have to offend family.  We had hours of Frank Sinatra, Slade and Wizard at the ready.  We had champagne and wine.  We had Stilton and Bath Olivers, trifle and meringues, Andrews for afters.  All set.
   'More fizz?'  I suggested.
   'It's good with a shot of brandy in it,' said Carol.
   'Really?'
   'Yeah.'
   She was right.  It added a certain 'je ne sais quoi'.  So I made another one.
   'How about a splash of Cointreau this time?' I said.
   'Yummy.'
   It was.
   Soon the vegetables were peeled and jauntily chopped, and the turkey was sizzling. George Michael was doing 'Careless Whispers', and Carol and I were slow dancing.
   'I love you, Carol,' I murmured.
   'I love you too, you lovely tart.'
   When the doorbell went, we burst out laughing and ran side by bouncing side down the hallway, Carol wearing a pink Christmas hat over her eyes and me attempting to steer her.  We were both beautifully pissed.
   'Hello Dave!'  we cried, greeting him like a long lost brother as we spilled out into the daylight.
   'Ooooh, look!  It's raining...' sang Carol, waving a plastic spatula above her head, batting the raindrops.
   It looked like fun, so I joined her, jumping up and catching the rain.
   Dave rolled his eyes, walked into the house and left us to it.
   We stayed outside until we realised that rain was wet.  Then we laughed some more, singing 'Jingle bells, Santa smells...'  Then, we realised that we were cold.  So we sang 'Jingle Bells' replacing the words with 'brrr, brrr, brrr...'
   'Are the potatoes supposed to be this colour?'  asked Dave, who had magically appeared from inside the house, with a tray of potatoes.
   We looked at each other and laughed again, dancing round, gleeful and unconcerned about the blackness of the roast potatoes.

   When we woke up, I wiped Carol's dribble from my shoulder and beamed at our newly-arrived mates. Ten minutes later, dinner was served (by Dave).
   Bliss.
   'Happy Christmas!' we cried.



 If Carol and Bev are your kind of people, you can see more of them here:Bev and Carol books