Hanging on the phone

It was my annual ring round the whole family, catching up and inviting them to my party.

I don't want to depress you, folks, but there are only about six weeks to Christmas. Ooh, doesn't that create panic and fluster?

Anyway, every year Mrs H and I throw a Christmas party for the whole family (and it doubles as my birthday party). We've never learned to be sensible and a) let someone else do it for a change, or b) send the invitations by post.

So I get on the phone and speak to my long lost son, daughters, big brother, little sister, cousins, nephews, nieces - and my ex-wife. With the hectic pace of modern living, I don't see most of 'em for months, yet they all live within 25 miles of York.

It's a long and tortuous process catching up on the news and I've learned the art of multi-skilling, apparently an almost-impossible task for the male of the species. So while I am on the phone to all these family hangers-on, I manage to polish my nails, read the papers, varnish a table and prepare Sunday dinner for my "can't cook, won't cook" wife. Actually, as I write, she is in her Jolly Green Giant overalls at the bottom of the garden hacking away at acres of undergrowth with a machete.

So, back to this phone-a-thon. My sister always spends the first two hours of every phone call listing and describing her various ailments (did I ever tell you I come from a long and distinguished line of hypochondriacs?).

This time it's a chesty cold that's lasted for weeks, but then that was the case with 99 per cent of the rest of the family. Her daughter's just had another baby and did I want to know all about the Caesarian section and the umbilical cord? No, thanks. Then came her annual moan that, as a Christmas Day baby, she always misses out on the double presents. Our granddad was born on Christmas Day, too, but I never heard him moan.

I nodded and made attentive noises and tried not to think about having to take out a second mortgage with British Telecom.

Two members of the family were decorating for Christmas when I rang. My son was up a ladder on his cordless phone (he got his multi-skilling from me). I asked what the kids wanted for Christmas. Money, came the reply.

Then there's my retired, but disgustingly-fit brother - also decorating - who shamed me with details of his 50-mile daily bike rides, roller-blading and Argentinian tango lessons. Which left Mrs H spitting blood because she's tried to persuade me for years to take up tango. Imagine that!

Brother has reached the age and comfort level where this year he does not want Christmas presents. He wants donations to charity instead. What a good idea, I thought. "I'll have whisky as usual," I told him firmly.

Number One daughter was not decorating, but getting ready to go to the pub (she got her multi-swilling from me). What do the kids want for Christmas? Money, she retorted without a millisecond's pause for thought.

One cousin had just got back from the pub, another was out fishing, so at least I did not have to listen to his endless tales of how he hooked a carp the size of Moby Dick on a breadcrumb with a 2lb line.

My ex-wife was well, and delighted to accept our annual invitation. But she was worried about the relentless advance of time, about our grown-up children, grandchildren and the situation in Iraq.

So, 100 per cent acceptance for the party so far. I should think so with all that free food and drink and the opportunity to see me make a fool of myself in a Santa hat.

Just No 2 (teenage) daughter to pin down now. She still lives at home so it's a bit more difficult because she's never in. When she is, she's always dashing out again, or has her texting thumbs flying across her telephone keypad. I think I'll send her invitation in a text message.