After spending the last few days moving beds, bookcases, chairs and assorted kitchen paraphernalia into a flat for two of my nearest and dearest I was looking forward to the in-laws’ family Christmas party today which would be my opportunity to display my luxuriant beard and flowing locks which I have cultivated in recent months.
As growing thick hair is one of my few skills, I was pleased to see the emergence of the hipster beard, and although just in my middle years, I thought I was at last in an age where my hirsute qualities could raise envy in the eyes of the younger generation and the ire of the balding seniors.
Arriving at the party, I was pleased to note that my beard was indeed the bushiest and my quiff one of the longest of all the generations represented. I grabbed a tray of salmon sandwiches to offer about, ensuring that all the guests could get a good look at my pompadour.
I could tell that all eyes were upon me as a swanned about, dishing out the sandwiches and making witty remarks to whoever would listen.
Suddenly a little niece, who I hardly knew, toddled up. I smiled down indulgently as she gazed on my beard and said.
“Mummy would like a sandwich Santa.”
In one fell swoop my image of myself was shattered and I could hear the words of the song “Santa Baby” sung in mocking tones by Eartha Kitt playing in the background.
Out of the mouths of babes they say.
Daily Press challenge: But No Cigar