Will’s World: It’s beginning to sound a lot like Christmas

Contrary to popular wisdom, there are a great many downsides to having children.

There are the noise levels, obviously. During the recent Storm Darragh, when the multiple strong-minded females I live with were safely ensconced inside decorating the Christmas tree – each of them individually trying to assert their will on the others as to how it should look – the Jack Russell and I took ourselves outside into the howling 70mph wind and driving rain for some relative peace and quiet.

See also: So you want to … grow and sell Christmas trees?

It also can’t be a coincidence that I’ve recently been advised I’ll soon need to wear a hearing aid in one ear. (In fairness to our numerous daughters, though, for any of you who happen to know the present Mrs Evans, the jokes about her husband going deaf at the tender age of 46 very much write themselves.)

Growing pains

Then there’s the cost of children, which is nothing less than eye-watering.

Why didn’t anyone warn us that they’d grow so much, and need near-constant supplies of new clothing.

Or that when they got to the teenage years they’d start demanding the expensive, branded variety.

Don’t even get me started on the thieves that manufacture and sell kid’s shoes.

I’ve just had to buy new farm boots and wellies for some of the girls, and I haven’t been so annoyed about the price of something since the last time I paid for a pint in London.

There’s never any food in the house. Seriously, never.

The cupboards are about as bare as the Cratchit family’s were before Scrooge was shown the light and rocked up there on Christmas morning with a turkey and all the trimmings.

It’s all down to the feral creatures who descend on the freshly purchased weekly shopping like a kettle of ravenous vultures.

I might find a solitary stale custard cream at the bottom of the biscuit tin, or perhaps a few ancient fish fingers in the freezer.

I can’t even remember what bacon tastes like these days.

Most mornings I arrive in the kitchen just as the last of it is being eaten, with that tantalising smell lingering in the air to torture me as I reluctantly prepare myself another bowl of gruel (or porridge, as it’s known in some circles).

They haven’t developed a taste for my whisky yet, though, so at least that’s safe. Thank heaven for small mercies. 

Wheel of torment

The present Mrs Evans and I are now full-time taxi drivers, ferrying our offspring the length and breadth of the country to their various sports clubs and activities, and often passing each other in the process like ships in the night.

I receive my precise instructions – what time I need to leave, the destination, and which daughter I need to take with me – and off I go like Parker driving Lady Penelope: “Yes m’lady” I resignedly mutter as they request control of the radio.

I wouldn’t mind, but they don’t even pay the fare on arrival.

Despite all this, they are occasionally becoming quite useful on the farm.

They make me laugh every day, either with general tomfoolery or by taking the mickey out of me.

Being around hopeful and positive young people is the most energising of things, and stops me from sinking into old man cynicism and grumpiness.

They’re even nice to each other sometimes, giving their mother and me hope that they might be there for one another – and maybe even us – as we get older. On balance, I think we’ll keep them.

Merry Christmas everyone.