The Creature of Christmas

25/12/07

I was woken early by a commotion on the landing. Fearing that Spencer and Colette had reverted to type, I opened the bedroom door to find my brother tentatively extending one hand into the airing cupboard, brandishing what appeared to be a chunk of cheese. In his other hand he held an opened pillow case. Colette, meanwhile, cowered behind him, blood dripping onto the carpet from one hand. "Harrison," hissed Spencer, "get out of there, you c___!" My natural objection at being referred to by such a socially unacceptable term on Christmas morning, caused both to turn to face me. As they did so, something darted from the airing cupboard, between their feet and down the stairs. "Hamilton!" shouted Colette, pointing after it. "What do you want me to do exactly?" I asked before Spencer could resort to further profanity. "She means the other Hamilton," said Spencer sheepishly. "What other Hamilton?" I demanded, but even before I'd finished the sentence, the answer became obvious. Spencer, exhilarated by my Rat of the Year nomination by the listeners of Crime Time had bought an actual rat for my Christmas. Now, as a consequence of his puerile joke, the Black Death scurried within the House of Coe.

For the next two hours, Spencer and I scoured the house for Hamilton while Colette was sent to hospital in a taxi for a tetanus (a fare toward which, I assured them, I would not be contrbuting). She had actually returned by the time Hamilton was finally captured. I managed to drive him out of the kitchen and into Spencer's waiting pillow case. As he thrashed horribly at the end of Spencer's arm, Colette shouted, "Kill him!" I immediately forbade this. It wasn't his fault, after all, that he'd been introduced into a strange environment for the purpose of the sort of joke a seven year old might have considered pointless and crude. Instead, we returned him to his cage which I then took into my room lest Spencer and Colette decide to destroy him after all. "Happy Christmas, Hamilton," said Spencer as I closed the door.

It's not the first time my name's been abused in such a fashion. Until my lawyers intervened, Craig Sanderson built his entire ventriloquism act around Hamilton Coe, Jr, while Pamela's aborted t.v. series featured the imbecilic 'Harrison Poe'. It would be nice to think that one day Muriel might name a son in my honour, but she's assured me that even if she were to have a child, the last thing she'd call him would be Hamilton. Certainly, as a Christian name, it's not suited to nonentity. People who've never met me assume that I'll conduct myself with honour and integrity. In some cases, of course, my reputation precedes me, but often I've found people convinced by nothing more than the grandeur of my name. A man without character might struggle to live up to the expectation. He'd be better with something that might be abbreviated to a single syllable and can be uttered with no more than the effort required to breathe. Hamilton the rodent, i thought, as I watched him scurry fretfully about the four corners of his cage, would have struggled to cope with being a 'Simon' or a 'Brian'. I wondered if it wouldn't have been kinder to let Colette exact her revenge.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Christine brought Dad who was querulous but, thankfully, non-violent. Muriel, initially sullen, brightened on being promised she could keep the rat on the condition that she give it a more fitting name (I suggested that Spencer might be appropriate but, for whatever reason, she settled on Sneivlet). Colette, meanwhile, continued to confound expectations, helping me in the kitchen while Spencer, ostensibly keeping Dad diverted, sat staring at the television and steadily worked his way through two bottles of wine. By the time dinner was served, he could barely sit upright. Later, he became irritated when I suggested he audition for the X-Factor, excerpts of which were shown on television. He couldn't have been worse, I suggested, than those featured, most of whom seemed to be mentally challenged. "But they're the rejects," explained Colette. So why, I wondered, were their humiliations being repeated for what one might expect to be the year's biggest audience. Even Herod, whose outrageous behaviour at least had a purpose, would have considered it poor form to so blatantly mock the afflicted.

 

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