Great Expectations.

Charles Dickens, the Queen's speech, an over-expanded stomach and the latest X Factor finalist at number one...these are some of the things I associate with Christmas time.  That and disappointment.  Utterly self inflicted might I add - prior to the 25th I completely buy in to the illusions of a family Christmas reminiscent of the seasonal M&S advert.  I picture my family gathered around the fire (which we don't have) opening presents, love in our eyes and gratitude magnified upon all faces - the scent of turkey and parsnips roasting in the oven and the smell of magical wonder in the air.  I envisage my darling husband turning to me and handing over the present I never requested but secretly wished for and then us kissing and looking at each other with that deep understanding which comes from traversing 17 years of marriage, the births of four children and a critical illness to boot.

The reality varies slightly.  Mostly.  Completely.

The disillusionment started on Christmas Eve with an incident  involving a wall, an ugly car, some disastrous male driving and several ugly wife expressions to follow.  Part of me was trying to be pleasant and kind and forgiving because it was Christmas Eve and only a really nasty wife falls out with her husband for reversing in to a wall on such a significant date.....but then the other part of me, the ungrateful martyr-type victim of self pity part, was bewailing the fact this had happened on CHRISTMAS EVE, because truly nothing bad should happen on the 24th December....because it's the night before Christmas.  Didn't the car, or the wall or fate or Chris realise this?  Bad things are even badder at Christmas and simply aren't supposed to occur.

Which is ridiculous and makes me think of the Band Aid song "Do they Know it's Christmas Time Atall?" (I think I may have shared my feelings on this topic once before).   As a child I really took that message on board and fretted about the poor people of Africa not having a Christmas.  Since then I have realised what nonsense it was - why would a starving mother, watching her children die stop to think to herself  that this is made any worse by the fact it is Christmas?  But we do.  When we hear of an accident, injury, divorce, job loss, affair or any other tragedy throughout December, most people's reaction is that it is made sadder because of the season.  We expect something wonderful at Christmas and when it is spoiled our disappointment is even more acute.  (Incidentally I do appreciate that the track hugely raised awareness of the plight in Ethiopia and was a great tool but the concept was purely for the Western Nations).

Following on from the car Chris then lost his wallet.  In itself nothing major but yet another niggle in our bag of troubles.  Thus I woke up Christmas Day struggling to maintain a facade of excitement, enhanced by the attitude of our teenage boys who made no secret of the fact they did not wish to get up and share in the fun.  At 14+ all a boy wants to do is sleep (and perhaps a few other unmentionable things) so trying to drag them out of bed and pretend to be happy for the sake of their little sisters who have wholeheartedly embraced the magic of Santa, is nigh on impossible.   On top of this the day was somewhat marred by the moans and groans of children, who justifiably, wished to remain at home and play with their games/toys, whilst we adults had arranged family visits.  Somehow next year we need to work on a compromise.

And my final disappointment is discovering our hamster, which I had bought as the girls' Christmas gift, is sick and so had to be returned from whence it came.    It basically sat in its cage for two days not moving much atall so yesterday I forced it out so to give it the once over and discovered it has wet tail....a stress related illness.  Quite frankly in this household I am not surprised.  Maybe she overheard about the smashed car and the lost wallet and all of my other woes.

I suppose I should be just grateful I am not a Hamster.

Handle with care.

I'm not sure whether I have told you this or not, and in perfect honesty I can't stand to re-read previous posts and find out (in the cringe department this falls second only to listening to your own voice on the answer machine) but Chris is now a Postman.  A far cry from his former roll as IT Consultant but, not surprisingly, on the whole,  a genuinely satisfying job - what man wouldn't want to hand their packages to several women each day?   Might I add that he makes a hugely handsome Postie, when compared to the Shrekish creature delivering my mail at least.  Should I be worried.....probably.  I take comfort though in the fact that were he to succomb to any attractive female it would be shortlived as he would've forgotten about it by teatime.

Yesterday however Chris had the absolute worse day in his working history; consdering this is the man who has previously worked on the bins, at a shampoo factory and as a gigolo in a male prison, this is really saying something.  Finishing the round at 7pm after a day spent in the lashing rain and freezing cold, he returned to the Delivery Office to find that everyone else had gone home - in itself not a problem except for the fact his car keys were in his locker inside.  So at half past eight he returned to our house, deflated, bedraggled and questioning his vocation in life.  On the upside he did collect a whopping two pounds in tips making his pain completely worthwhile.

This isn't however the "handle with care" I wished to discuss.  Yesterday in my spam I found an email from "Babycentre.com" - American so possibly the only explanation I need, and yes I am completely racist believing that the majority of American's are ridiculous.  My distaste however does not extend to such methods as a final solution, only a de-cheesing ritual and a plan to remove all upper intonation at the end of sentences.  The article was entitled "Your pre-schooler and you - how to survive the holidays".   Have I missed something?  Survive 9/11 yes, or the Holocaust, or earthquakes in Japan , but the 'holidays'...really?

First things first.......'Holidays?' - a new way of describing the Christmas period derived to cause zero offence to non-christian denominations.  No, no, no, no, no.  Christmas is Christmas, plain and simple.  If people find this offensive perhaps they need to question their own motivation....and the Christian in me says shoot them all.   Secondly, what is there about a 'pre-schooler' that is so utterly terrifying, detestable and fear invoking that we require a survival guide?  The last time I checked my youngest was the only child I didn't fear....an angel who patters in to my bed at 2am each morning, throwing her arms around my neck and reassuring me that I am indeed loved beyond measure.  What possibly can people have to fear from their little ones? Teenagers on the other hand....now that is a guide I would like to see.  How to navigate through the disdain they show at the fact you, their mother, is still breathing - this I need help with.

Sometimes I look at these articles and realise the world is mad - madder than mad - and I wonder when it all began.  Certainly it came about in our life time.  I can still recall when adults were in charge, when asking why' was a no go, teachers were scary, ADHD was just 'naughty' and the only time kids got to go to Disneyland Florida was when Jim fixed it for them.  The world has come so far and then turned back on itself.  

No wonder it is so hard for us all to keep a handle on things - when craziness rules.  Talking of which Chris is insisting I surrender the laptop - apparently he needs it for work related duties.  Since when has Facebook been part of Royal Mail?

X X

Could we start again please?

It's slightly awkward trying to restart this once again....like the feeling you get when attempting to reconvene a relationship with someone after several years apart.  What once felt like second nature now seems gawky and self conscious but this is convincingly outweighed by the gratification it gives me to write and the appreciation of how much I loved keeping a blog before.  So here's hoping you are all still out there somewhere in the recesses of cyber world, and willing to listen anew.  I shall of course be anxious for the next few days worrying whether or not you still find me an attractive proposition....if not all I ask is that you let me down gently.

I should probably begin by saying that nothing has changed.  (Actually that's a lie.  All women of my age know that with each passing month there are measurable changes in several areas....my boobs for one are possibly another 5mm closer to my toes now, the bright side of which being I estimate it will only be approximately five more years before I can ditch the discomfort of bras and simply tuck my bust into my tights).  So, rather, many changes have occurred but fundamentally  not a lot is different.  I am still pursuing my endless goal of achieving the unachievable...which I fear nowadays is more the goal than the goal itself.  Setting ridiculous targets with seemingly no possibility of success appears to have become my life's undertaking leading me to believe that Freud really did have a point with his concept "Becoming happy is unachievable as a goal, yet cannot be abandoned" (cultured?me? wot wot wot.)  Was Freud married?  I don't know the answer to that but I am guessing from his idea "life is made up of pain and disillusionment" he probably was.  No-one understands disappointment more than a wife who has spent her Saturday cleaning, cooking, plucking, shaving, dyeing, moisturising and making over in anticipation of romance, only to have a husband come in and put on MOTD.   And no-one understands more about pain than a man who has done the above.

So Christmas is almost upon us.  In six more sleeps it will be here and I must confess that despite the fact I detest all the hype I do truly love Christmas.  I love the thought of giving my children things they will love, of spending time with my family, albeit dysfunctional, but mostly the atmosphere that surrounds everything and everyone.  Somehow in this dark and dreary world the Christmas Spirit pervades and continues to remain regardless.  People are always that little bit nicer, happier, kinder. thoughtful and more appreciative at Christmas. Oh and drunk.  Maybe that's the connection.  The key to happiness Freud......Baileys and Vodka.  If only Freud had lived to experience alcopops.

I am of course on another diet.  Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without me trying to live on five carrots two slices of ham and a glass of stewed prunes and senna for the entire week before.  I think I decided about four months ago that I needed to do something about my weight (note the very loose use of the word 'decided' considering this my 403rd attempt) and calculated that if I lost two pounds a week, every week I could be in a size twelve by New Year.   I then proceeded to scoff myself stupid until two weeks ago when I realised I had three weeks to lose 30 pounds and that drastic action was necessary.   I am not yet sure why I need to lose 30 pounds by Christmas.  Subliminally I think maybe I was told as a child that Santa does not deliver to fat children; that and the fact all of the magazines I read (which I trust with my entire well being)  have informed me I need to wear a little black dress at Christmas and I believe them.  If my dress is not little I will cease to exist.  It is that simple.

Fingers crossed then that I can stick to my starvation plan and fit in to some kind of party outfit this year....even if it is with the aid of a miracle body suit, spandex leggings and several rolls of duct tape.

For now though I shall say goodnight and hope that we can meet again soon.

Call me?

x x x x