My teetotal mother tries porter

Drinking three pints of Yorkshire Porter at 7%, followed by a pint of Katy cider at 7.4% was possibly not the most inspired decision when going on a day out with the extended family, none of whom drink. It's a fine beer though, from North Yorkshire Brewery in Guisborough, and it's organic, which means you can drink a gallon of it and still be charming, intelligent and gentlemanly.

Mum wanted to buy us all Christmas dinner at Wethers in Middlesbrough. The Tightly-Clad Ski Resort Hostesses were there, the daughters of what appears to be my mum's only close friend (but then, how many do you need?) -- seated at a safe distance from any drunken flirting of mine dressed up as an interest in chalet life in Crans-Montana. My mum, to my astonishment, asked to try my porter. She sucked a tiny amount up through a straw and puckered her face with wincing distaste. Then, to compound my surprise, my brother made the same request, but reported more favourably, saying "that's not bad."

I couldn't eat more than a fraction of the food, and went across the road to Boots where, after waiting a while at an unattended till, I went behind it and pinched some carrier bags, and shovelled most of my dinner into one, to be fried up later as bubble and squeak. We went back to my mum's house where everyone's merriment concealed my tipsiness. I hope. My sister had bought a lime green gimp suit in a charity shop, and we both zipped it on. I wondered about its history.

Trina drove us back, saying what a nice family I have. We're poor, we've got to be nice; it's the only currency we've got. There's no-one at my house at the moment, so we put a coal fire in, prepared a nutritious, balanced meal of wine, Bombay mix and amphetamine sulphate, and boogied around to some house music from bookface. We went separately to bed, but she came into my room in the morning. Reader, I fucked her. I wish I could stop doing this. It muddies the waters and gives her hope.

As usual I spent Christmas with Kirsty and the girls at theirs. Things started unravelling a bit on Boxing Day, with Melanie's new record player packing up, Fiona's bike having problems with the mudguards and its gears, and Kirsty being iller than I've seen her for many years. I don't like encouraging Boxing Day opening but I went down Sainsbury's and bought another bottle of port on the pretence of fetching her some more Lemsips. I'd managed to drink a bottle a day, so the two that were supposed to get us through Christmas had gone.

The greeting in the Christmas card I sent to Donna descended into filth despite my half-hearted efforts. She texted me saying that she can't display it, but will keep it. I texted back: "Sorry Donna, I'll make them more decent in future. Thank you for sprinkling a sexy bit of stardust over a few weeks in 2014. I cannot put into words how I loved the way you made me feel -- and feeling you was pretty good too! All the best for 2015 XXX"

In the same spirit -- or fortified wine -- I texted Kim. "With the disinhibiting effects of Christmas and a bottle of port... I love you my darling [pet name]. I am very fond of you as sonnead [sic] I wish were nearer, but that regardless I am glad that you are in my life Xxx." She texted a lovely reply.

I misunderstood when Morgane wanted to look at the room. She emailed to confirm that she was coming around on Christmas Eve. Fuck. I swept and tidied as much as one can with a sow's ear of a house and creaked the central heating into its first action since everyone moved out last week. She's bright and lively, and shares one of her mother's outstanding characteristics.

In the bathroom, she said "Erm... where do we put things?" That threw me a bit. There's a low chest of drawers and a couple of small shelves, but I suppose women need half an acre of shelf space for their bathroomy paraphernalia. She asked for some "baskets". If any woman reading this might be able to help me out to understand what kind of "basket" you put in a bathroom, or what purpose it might serve, I'd be most grateful.