–negar and then you tried to consume it like wine…
Next year, to save me from fear,
I will not be invited!
So, that was a success. But let me start at the very beginning!
As you might know if you follow me on Facenovel (which is what you should be doing) I have a half-sister named Petunia. We share a mother. Except, mine did this thing that mothers in historical novels do, and died while giving birth to me. Petunia has never stopped passively- or actively-aggressively blaming me for that, as if I considered all the pros and cons while located in the womb, nodded sternly, and said “death it is.” “I am a half-orphan,” Petunia is fond of saying, and I have to sit on my tongue (metaphorically) not to remind her I am a full orphan, although admittedly even Petunia couldn’t find a way to blame herself for the fact that our mother enjoyed the company of various and varied gentlemen. But I am digressing.
On the night of Christmas Eve, when I was busy avoiding the BBC in case “Previous Christmas” by the band Whump! of George Michaels comes on and I have to go to Whumphalla which is a Facenovel competition I am pleased to say I won, I got a text message all of a sudden from Petunia. “You are invited to my luncheon,” she wrote, “no need to dress formally, a gown and heels will do.” Obviously, Petunia knows that heels are my arch-enemy and the only gown I own is a dressing gown. But I was smarter than to point that out, so I simply and meekly responded “thank you” although I passively-aggressively didn’t say I would actually attend, not that this makes a difference with Petunia. If I didn’t show up, she’d send police to my house to recover my body, because the only way to avoid Petunia’s luncheons is either dying or changing your identity and moving to another continent. Which I am tempted to do.
Obviously, due to being notified at 10pm on the Christmas Eve, we didn’t have presents of any sort at all. (Although I considered giving Petunia my Omnibus, which is a collection for those less versed in the literary matters, of all my (three) novels. But living in cognito means you have to be careful with presents for your half-sister who would like nothing more than for Colombian Maffia to descend upon Gunther and I. I think I missed a bracket here.) The only thing that looked unused (because it was) was luxury vinegar I bought for, frankly, I don’t know what reason. I don’t produce meals that require luxury vinegars. Most of them only require a microwave and taking off the plastic. Anyway, the problem with the luxury vinegar was the huge “35% OFF” sticker covering some of the label. I tried to scrape it off and only tore a corner off, because it’s this sort of sticker that actually works against you. Therefore, we soaked the bottle all night. In the morning, we discovered that we have succeeded too much, because the vinegar label also came off.
You see, the bottle looks a bit like a small wine bottle. And it has a cork (you have to twist it rather than uncork it with the uncorker, still, it does). We left the plastic on top untouched, hoping she’ll keep it untouched as well, at least until we leave. Unfortunately, the plastic didn’t say “this is vinegar” either. (You know where I am going with this, I can see it in your eyes.) (This was a joke. I am not using a virus to watch you through your camera. But Petunia’s children definitely do.) So, we had no presents for her children at all, unless they would appreciate Lassie’s (my dog’s who looks like Lassie from the movie Lassie) poop in plastic bags as ironic and post-postmodern and they probably would, but Petunia wouldn’t. We didn’t have anything for her ever-changing partner either, but the one bit of luck we had was that she is currently “between partners.” (Luckily that didn’t mean one on the left and one on the right.)
So, we arrive and Gunther, who is the braver of us when it comes to Petunia, handed her the vinegar with a ribbon around it. “Ah,” Petunia said. “What a lovely petite present.” Gunther said size wasn’t important and I, memorable of his surgery that added two inches, almost didn’t laugh, which Petunia took personally, pursed her lips and removed herself with the vinegar. As I expected, her children, Yakopp (it’s no longer Jacquobbe, as Petunia pointed out, suggesting between the lines – as in, loudly and clearly – that I don’t even care about my nephew) and Jo’Anna (luckily this one is more stable name-wise) didn’t even notice us entering, much less not carrying presents they would spend 0.2 second pretending to like. They were on their phones on Ticktock which I thought had to do with timers and I wondered whether they were trying to turn back time, but it’s an app where they film innocent people such as Gunther and I and then make fun of them. (!!! – the youth of today! THEY should have been raised by nuns, not I.)
So, the entree arrives and it’s baked garlic. I am not joking. Petunia has apparently seen that on Mastercook which is like Masterchef Aldi Version. You wrap a whole HEAD of garlic in aluminum foil, put that in the oven for I don’t want to know how long, and what comes out is a bit like jam. I passed mine to Gunther under the table and he insisted it was actually delicious. The children complained that they need both hands to eat it and can’t continue influencing like this. Which, I think, was Petunia’s secret goal. Also, she wanted me to smell of garlic. (“Unfortunately I notice I am one portion short, but I’m not that hungry anyway” – I can see through you, half-sister!) Once we were finished with that and the children reached for their phones again, the next dish arrived. It was fish. (I have not celebrated Christmas since I left the nunnery, and back then we were rewarded with an extra bowl of porridge, so maybe it’s traditional and maybe it isn’t.) With bones. Eating fish with bones elegantly is difficult, let me tell you. The children declared they were full to the brim and began to film us trying to eat fish elegantly, thus “providing content” to their influencing accounts. Petunia huffed and told them not to film her. But not not to film us. And so, I am currently being content with fish, glancing up nervously like a rabbit in the headlights eating fish with phones filming in their face (rabbit’s, in this metaphor or simile). The fish was quite nice, though, I must admit. Then arrived the traditional Christmas profiteroles – I might be making a typo, but who buys things called “profiteroles” knowing they are begging to be typo-ed anyway? Anyway, when the main dish arrived and it was cauliflower mash (Jo’Anna is allergic to potatoes) with fish fingers I recognised very well from Aldi Christmas Specials range because I bought them myself two days earlier but Petunia insisted were homemade – well, they were definitely home-reheated – with lettuce on the side (and dressing on the side, because Petunia is on a diet), things became more interesting.
“Children,” Petunia said, “do put your phones down, or I will confiscate them.”
Some groaning followed, but judging by how quickly the phones disappeared, Petunia actually did do this sort of thing.
I was then childsplained at what influencing is. You film yourself being fabulous and other people being decidedly not. Once you inevitably go viral, you are then drowning in sponsorships and trips to all parts of the world in which you continue influencing. I was just thinking of perhaps making Lassie influence, because my sweet Lassie takes fabulous to a whole new level, when Jo’Anna asked me whether it was true that I was best friends with Vasoline, our neighbour whose front of the house currently displays a rotating Pope Francoise above whom hangs a huge inflatable Baby Jesus that Vasoline’s partner/husband Dishwasher Man attached using a welded metal rod to the wall.
I choked a bit on my fish finger. “Not best,” I said carefully. “Why?”
As it turned out, Vasoline’s “many faces” exhibition has been trending on Ticktock and Ex, which is what my beloved Tweeter has become. (Shame on you, Mr Tusk!) Of course, said Yakopp, his fingers dripping with grease and voice with disdain, they do not use Ex which is for “in-cells” (I think this is a biological and/or prison insult of some sort), but it’s good to know what is trending. Apparently somebody made illegal photos of the exhibition and was spreading them virally. They are virus-type deadly, I assumed, remembering Andreas, who is a vegan, returning to our house before he even managed to enter, and drinking my sherry without asking whether it was vegan. Petunia demanded to see, saying that Vasoline is a woman of Class and Sophistication, and Gunther and I put down our silverware forks, because that was going to be good.
Once Petunia was revived, claiming weakly that it was the most artistic thing that she had ever seen and she had to go in person, looking very relieved when I told her the exhibition was shut due to causing unrest among the public (who, Petunia said, clearly knew nothing about art), she took her revenge by asking Yakopp and Jo’Anna (I just realised I am not sure whether it’s Jo’Anna with silent A or Jo’Anne or Jo’Ann, but I am not going to ask) about their educational plans.
The children shifted rather nervously. Then did it again. After a few minutes of nervous shifting in otherwise silence as all three of them observed them with varying facial expressions, Yakopp finally said that he was dropping out to become a full-time influencer and Jo’Anna very shiftily admitted she had not been to school his year at all, because her career was taking off. The luncheon has officially turned into an interrogation that I would have filmed with my phone if I knew how to do it. Petunia clearly regretted asking this question in front of us, but couldn’t tell us to leave while questioning, and Gunther and I were suddenly enjoying the post-luncheon greatly. Jo’Anna has been sponsored (!!!) by a brand (!!!) which, she said much more quieter, was producing balloons (THEY WERE CONDOMS) in funny shapes and colours. For the sponsoring, she had to pull them over various objects. Petunia clearly did not want to know what the objects were, but Gunther asked, and when it turned out one was a cauliflower, Petunia needed reviving again. But not to the degree not to ask Yakopp about his career.
Yakopp, it turns out, has a YouPipe channel where he produces post-postmodernist ironic takes on old movies such as ones from 2021. But only bad ones. He plays the entire movie in the background, which I am sure is illegal, and provides his commentary. His channel has so many subscribers he is about to “monetise” it. I asked how many it was and he turned a bit of a funny colour, mumbling that his audience was growing exponentially. So far, as Petunia interrogated him successfully, it was “becoming larger by the minute,” and he seemed to think he was safe when she demanded to see it.
Eight. His latest video movie clip has eight. Views. Not observers. And I suspect four were his own to make sure it all sounded horrible enough. The fifth would be Vasoline’s, no doubt. The boy is cruel. All teenage boys are cruel, so this is no surprise, but the movie in question featured Jason Moan-Moan and even Jo’Anna looked scandalised at the thought of her brother being ironic about Jason Moan-Moan, whom he accused of having a “dad-bod” (Yakopp has a pregnant stick figure “bod” although I shouldn’t be describing the anatomy of someone this age.). Petunia was shocked by his bad taste in movies, she said lyingly. I was becoming more and more entertained due to a flask I smuggled in my handbag. And then, all of a sudden, Petunia and I began to bond over the youth of today. In our youth, which I assure you was not as long ago as my designer Paolo’s AI photographs of me would make you think, we did not influence with our phones. We received education from the nuns (me) or expensive private schools (Petunia). Then she started telling us about the horrors of being expensively educated at a private school and we made a mistake of not leaving.
“Well,” she said mid-sentence. “I suppose we can as well have a drink. Not you,” she said waving her finger at the children, “only the adults.” She disappeared and unexpectedly returned with our vinegar bottle. “It’s not big,” Petunia said, “so we’ll only have one drink, we must be responsible, especially those who drive.”
“I’m not really a wine person,” Gunther said while I was in shock. “I drink beer.”
“Of course you do,” said Petunia. “I happen to have Aldi Strong here, bought in case my poor relatives visit. Sherry for you, darling?” It took me a while to realise the darling was I, because normally I am being called other things by Petunia. “Yes,” I said weakly.
“Content,” Gunther hissed when Petunia disappeared for a moment. “You’ll get content,” he repeated when the children stared at him as if gluten-free kale started talking.
Stupidly, they started filming us. I dipped into my sherry. Gunther opened his beer. And Petunia poured herself a glass of the luxury vinegar.
“Hmm,” she said many-meaningly upon sniffing her glass. “Hmmm.”
I opened my mouth, decided better, poured some sherry into it, and closed it. The children’s phones, smartly, turned towards their mother. “We’re live-streaming you,” said Jo’Anna. “You can influence with the best!”
“It’s interesting bouquet,” Petunia said. She sounded a bit strangled. She swirled the vinegar in her glass. “Very pale tint.” I nervously emptied my glass in one gulp as Petunia gave the vinegar a cross-eyed stare.
“What vintage would you say it is?” asked Gunther and I elbowed him mid-his-gulp of beer, causing him to cough. Yakopp silenced him with an angry hiss.
“Fresh,” said Petunia. “Probably French, first of the season.”
“It’s December,” said Jo’Anna.
“France has different seasons,” said Gunther, who was enjoying this way too much.
“What notes does it have on the plate?” asked Yakopp and very clearly winked at us.
“Palate, darling! Have some education!” At this, Petunia took a small sip. She turned a bit yellow and looked like someone who wants to hyperventilate, but knows is being live-streamed. “Sauvignon blanc. Quite typical, actually.”
“Your voice is odd,” said Yakopp.
Gunther – I don’t know when he managed the first beer – opened the second (Petunia brought two, which felt simultaneously like an offence and stingy.) I refilled my sherry.
“Tongue notes are quite je ne sais pas,” Petunia said.
“Drink some more,” Gunther said.
“Yes,” Petunia said when she stopped coughing. “Oui. I must admit I have never been a fan of sauvignon blanc that my half-sister brought for me.” The children didn’t buy the bait. “Nevertheless,” she said, “since I am being life-streamed, I shall talk about myself a bit.”
“Mum! It’s meant to be interesting!”
“Tell her,” Gunther said, elbowing me.
“You tell her,” I wheezed. He can elbow like a pro-elbower.
“No, it was your idea.”
“Because you had none.”
The phones turned our way and I slipped under the table, leaving Gunther to be live-streamed. “It’s pinot grigio,” he said.
Horrible silence befell the room as the phones turned back to Petunia. “Mother,” Jo’Anna said disparagingly, not continuing on, due to having conveyed her message in one brief word.
Petunia took a bigger sip of the vinegar as I slipped back onto my chair. “I made a mistake,” she wheezed. “Clearly pinot grigio. 2022, I’d say. Southern variety. A bit sour, to be honest…” She took another sip. “Put down those phones or I’ll send you to a boarding school.”
“Mum!”
“I’ll influence you to math,” she threatened and the phones went down. Petunia turned to me. “This is vinegar,” she said. “You forced me to drink half a glass of vinegar.”
“It’s a very small glass,” I said, because it was the only thing that came to mind.
And then we saw each other out as fast as it took me to swig the sherry and Gunther to swig his beer (he’s impressive like that), while being live-streamed as content, although truth be told it was mostly the back of Petunia being streamed as she threw curses at me that I didn’t know existed, and I noted some of them for my grim dark epic fantasy romantic historical novel because grim dark novels use curses with much less fluency than Petunia.
We had to walk home, because both of us were a bit too shaken (and drunk) to drive, but when my phone rang with a message, I was in terror to look at it. It was from my designer Paolo.
“Is it your back and your sister’s back on Karens Who Deserve What They Get?” he asked. (Karen is a name that receives very bad press and I honestly would like to speak to someone about that, I just don’t know who. Maybe the manager of YouPipe?) “It’s all over my feeds.” (This means a social media thing. Is there a manager of feeds?) “It’s incredible. I didn’t know ‘spooternunny ballista’ was a thing. It has a hashtag of its own.” I texted back making sure it’s only my back that can be seen – Colombian Maffia and/or the police would be here (here meaning my house in which I am typing this post, not where we were at that current time which was on the street) and he assured me that even if I stood there introducing myself and giving my full address, all people want to know if who Petunia is and whether she has her own YouPipe channel, because they all want to subscribe to it.
I should have brought a copy of my Omnibus and waved it at the camera inconspicuously, truly.
Today is Boxing Day and Petunia sent me a few messages suggesting she’d put boxing in Boxing Day if I were nearer. I don’t intend to get nearer any time soon. Honestly, though, if I had known that vinegar live-streamed on Yakopp’s channel would monetise it into a career with the help of Petunia’s vocabulary, I would have given it to her earlier.
Yours in holiday spirits,
Karen xoxo
PS. I have gone to the first round of physiotherapy for my forearm and I need to ask Gerardo (the physiotherapist) whether he has a YouPipe channel where he exercises a lot, and if he does it without his top on. If the answer is yes, I will share it with you, because all of us need more of shirtless Gerardo in our lives. I expect to need many, many sessions.