Christmas comes but once a year, and Hanan is one person who remains grateful for that. My wife was staggering around the living room at 7am gathering used wrapping paper, as the boys played with their presents. Bent double, clearing up after the kids at the crack of dawn is bad enough, but it also meant she didn't notice Ethan's new remote controlled helicopter heading straight for her curls. There may be more stomach-churning things to watch than whirring blades whipping through extremely curly hair, but I can't think of one right now.
'My head!' Hanan cried.
'My helicopter!' yelled Ethan.
'My scalpel,' I called.
It took me a solid five minutes of unravelling to get the helicopter blades separated from the curls, after which Hanan was in need of Christmas spirit more than I was, except she doesn't drink. That didn't stop me cracking open a bottle before I attacked the chicken carving with gusto. Just the week before, I had received a late birthday present from my sister Anouchka in the form of a knife skills class. I had visions of placing Hanan against a wall and stunning our friends with a display of blade throwing that left every hair on her head untouched and ready for altercations with flying toys. But the class was all about cooking - my second favourite subject (after eating). Suffice it to say that we prepared and enjoyed a three course meal that was positively crammed with chopped, cut and sliced ingredients, but my favourite part was jointing a chicken. Yes, my days of reaching over, grabbing a leg or a breast and pulling are over, at least when it comes to roast fowl. Feeling quite superior about my general kitchen abilities, I got a bit blase with the knife by the time we got to slicing mangoes, and I sliced into my finger instead. As much as this was shocking to me, it was quite conceivable to my lovely wife, who explained to me that while I have a vision of myself in my own mind as something of a female James Bond (panther-like reflexes) the reality is that I am closer to Mr Bean.
Feeling a little aggrieved, I asked her to prove that assertion (even though the first and last time we did an aerobics class together 13 years ago remains a mortal stain of shame on my lack of rhythm).
'On the set of I Can't Think Straight' she replied. 'I hired a runner just to follow you with a fire blanket and a first aid kit.'
'That was three years ago,' I said defensively. But Hanan was ready with the more recent example of the shoot of 'Middle Eastern Flavours', the new cooking show.
'I can't believe I would suggest you direct anything that involved naked flames and sharp knives,' she said, clearly still upset with her own lack of judgement.
'I didn't notice anything fall, or break,' I returned.
'Because I was behind you, catching everything,' Hanan said.
And that's the thing, you see. She has that Bond-ness in her. She can drive up a mountain, listen to educational CDs, make To Do lists and admire the scenery all at the same time and still cling to hairpin bends like white on rice. I know she probably did sense a falling light from the side of her eye and whip out a hand to catch it while I bounded over to the production designer, oblivious. Perhaps that's why I got one of the best Christmas presents ever, in the shape of a leather backpack that can hold everything I own in one go (so I don't forget my phone, keys or computer each day). But I can't avoid the fact that I just found one of her presents in the back of the cupboard because I forgot I'd bought it. But you know what I decided? I may tap dance (or fall down) to the beat of a different drum, but no-one knows how to handle a (chicken) breast like me...