Kevin Page eventually got his Christmas ham. Photo/123RF
OPINION
I’m sitting there at the traffic lights the other Saturday, radio on, and the bloke doing all the talking starts banging on about how this year is going so fast already.
And he’s right.
Having celebrated the 39th anniversary of my 21st birthday a mere three and a bit months ago, I have become particularly attuned to the speed with which time flies of late.
I presume it’s because a lightbulb went on somewhere upstairs and it dawned on me I’m well over the halfway mark in terms of life expectancy and with time flying at what feels like an alarming rate I might not actually have too much of it left on the planet.
So, I’ve started looking back at my 22,008 days on this good earth - 528,192 hours if you are mathematically inclined - and wondering if there was anything I’d missed out on.
Naturally, there are all sorts of personal things and moments one wishes one could relive but, quite frankly, that all felt a little too serious and sombre so I clicked that part of my brain off and decided to think about something more recent.
And what did I come up with?
Ham.
One of those big, salty vacuum-packed jobs you get at Christmas and it lasts you through till New Year when you are finally sick of the sight and taste of it.
Or in my case one of those big, salty vacuum-packed jobs, or even a slice or two of one, you didn’t get.
So let me explain.
Mrs P has always been big on the Christmas tradition thing and a sizeable block of real estate in our fridge has always been put aside for the ham – either the one I win at the golf tournament (he says humbly) or the one my day job employer hands out as part of our end of year gift package.
Now, while I love (with a capital L) a good ham, Mrs P is at the opposite end of the scale. I won’t bore you with the intimate details but her long-term illness also makes it difficult to have around in terms of the risk of cross-contamination.
So, this year, even though she was happy to risk it and continue the tradition, I decided to make things a little easier for my lady and go without.
There was method in my madness though.
We were going to a function on Christmas Eve and I’d ascertained beforehand there would be ham on offer. Then on Christmas Day we would be going to the home of the Boomerang Child.
As I’d given them my work ham I figured the odd slice (or five) would end up on my plate one evening. Or in a big thick wedge with two perfectly fried almost runny eggs next morning ... don’t get me started.
Anyway. Essentially I was pretty confident I wouldn’t miss out. Or so I thought.
On Christmas Eve I spotted a large platter of beautifully sliced ham whispering sweet nothings to me across the room as we mixed and mingled around the buffet table.
Twice I lined up my approach but was thwarted each time by other guests.
On the first occasion, I was a mere two metres from table touchdown when a gin and tonic was thrust into my hand and I was carried off course for a discussion on the relative merits of investing in the residential property market and whether Winston would get the job done.
I’m sure if he had the opportunity to grab a taste of this succulent-looking ham not two yards from me he would, but I digress.
On the second occasion, I was on a more direct, forthright approach, paper plate in hand, when a child rushed by and grabbed a couple of slices from the pile, lathering the remainder with his dirty hands as he went on his merry way.
This caused a shriek from the hostess who swiftly removed the platter, apologising profusely as she went.
Unfortunately, we departed before any ham returned. All that was left was for me to make a mental night to spill the beans if Santa asked me if that little boy had been naughty or nice.
So. On to Christmas Day.
To be fair it was a great day. Kids. Prezzies. Surprise guests and good food. Homemade hamburgers to be exact. The start of a new Christmas tradition which was kind of quirky but actually good fun and a lot easier than normal. But no ham.
Apparently, the one I’d gifted them was destined for a trip up north a few days later with the Boomerang Child’s in-laws.
Oh well. Such is life. And after all that there I am at the lights last Saturday. On the way to see the Scottish Plumber for a catch-up.
I figured if the biggest problem I’ve had in my life was the fact I missed out on a few slices of ham one Christmas or New Year’s Day then I’d lived a relatively blessed life.
I mentioned as such to my mate as we enjoyed a nice glass of some alcoholic lubricant apparently popular with those of the Scots persuasion. And others.
He listened to my tale of woe and disappeared after a while, I presumed to get a refill, but came back with a plate, piled high with ham sandwiches.
And so we ate. Relived past football and golf games. Had another small beverage and solved the real problems of the world.
As I drove away later, completely satisfied, I was thinking how bizarre it was a pile of ham sandwiches had returned equilibrium to my life.
It got better.
I popped into my workplace on the way across town to drop something off and found the boss sitting at his desk.
We chatted briefly then he told me they’d miscalculated the number of hams they’d got for staff at Christmas and had one left over. They’d done a random draw and that lucky person got the extra ham.
Guess who won?
