A promise or a declaration?
Interesting idea that we start the year afresh with a long list of ideals, that seldom stay fresh until February, and yet we do it every year, millions of us, all over the world. It is a bit like every Monday when you decide to start a diet or stop smoking or whatever…So New Years Day is the BIG MONDAY. (Even though it is a Tuesday this year!)
Generally it seems we (as in the world) pledge:-
To stop smoking/drinking/ eating to excess,
To start exercising/be nice to others/save/spend more time with friends,
To tackle our debt/phobias/housework,
To get a new job/better education and cut stress-everywhere.
How will we be less stressed when we pile on the pressure with unrealistic expectations of our own behaviour? It is bad enough to have unrealistic expectations of our families/bosses/environment/lottery chances, but to set ourselves up with a shopping list of perfection?
Even the government keeps tabs on these resolutions
http://www.usa.gov/Citizen/Topics/New_Years_Resolutions.shtml
And if you think it is just the Yanks...
http://www.britishcouncil.org/languageassistant-new-year.htm
So what will mine be?
Well I have thought long and hard, 2 minutes actually, probably 2 minutes longer than they are worth but here goes.
2008 is the year I will get published!
2008 is the year I will accumulate another 90 OU pass points!
2008 is the year I will fight back. I.E. will not take any more shit, shenanigans or crap from anyone-especially employers!
2008 is the year I believe in me!
2008 is the year I will keep 4 resolutions!
By the way the usual 10 are all ‘givens’ as everyone has them as stocking fillers!!
So may your journey into 2008 be with friends and family, may you be happy and healthy and above all be content.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Christmas Day 2007
It dawned at a reasonable time 8.30a.m. We clambered downstairs in a dressing gown conga line and we opened our presents beneath our twinkling tree. Watches, books games, clothes, pants and socks, (the most underrated of all presents-really would you spend 10 quid on a pair of socks for yourself?) all were happy.
Then John made our traditional start to the day, steak and onion baguettes and a large mug of scalding tea. We footered with our gifts, got showered and dressed and set about waiting for the family to descend, Jim Marie Michael and Monica came first. At this point I feel I should say Monica is Michael’s cousin, and not Marks, further more we were swapping pressies which meant a swift trip to the emergency present pile…Marks and Spencer’s Chocolate Santas were duly despatched and eventually eaten. More wrappings fell onto the floor and play sets assembled, a rogue football bounced around threatening my Beleek and blood pressure, but was trapped and incarcerated in the garage, and peace was restored. Stephen arrived with sacks for both of the small boys, more chocolate and wrappings and toys and those little plastic ties appeared and were despatched and we are now on black bin bag number three.
John went for Mum and more mayhem ensued, a flying saucer with a remote control that has an impossibly tiny wee screw that cannot be undone, this is the way into the battery compartment. Still several scissors and screw drivers and sellotape later it works champion style, sighs of relief echo through the house. Also paul discovered he had forgotton to get Gran anything...Back to the emergency present store and a tin of buiscuits were gratefully recieved.
Dinner was served, and the chat is varied and interrupted by the telephone which is Pat (John’s other brother.) Still the meal continues well and we eat an obscene amount of food, but it was good, apparently no one satisfies Mum better than Mario Lanza, which of course led to several other comments none really recountable here.
Mum decided to organise her own funeral with Stephen officiating. It is difficult when faced with such a request to avoid saying ‘I would be delighted.’ But some how, through experience he made the right noises. Mum thoroughly enjoyed herself and was despatched before Doctor Who. (Despatched as in driven home, not buried!!)
Then Jillian and Lauren came over and we unwrapped even more pressies, binned even more paper ate too much chocolate and played Catchphrase.
It was a good night until 12.15 when John and Paul fell out, something to do with singing-they are still barely speaking to one another but then it would not be Christmas if it was perfect would it?
Then John made our traditional start to the day, steak and onion baguettes and a large mug of scalding tea. We footered with our gifts, got showered and dressed and set about waiting for the family to descend, Jim Marie Michael and Monica came first. At this point I feel I should say Monica is Michael’s cousin, and not Marks, further more we were swapping pressies which meant a swift trip to the emergency present pile…Marks and Spencer’s Chocolate Santas were duly despatched and eventually eaten. More wrappings fell onto the floor and play sets assembled, a rogue football bounced around threatening my Beleek and blood pressure, but was trapped and incarcerated in the garage, and peace was restored. Stephen arrived with sacks for both of the small boys, more chocolate and wrappings and toys and those little plastic ties appeared and were despatched and we are now on black bin bag number three.
John went for Mum and more mayhem ensued, a flying saucer with a remote control that has an impossibly tiny wee screw that cannot be undone, this is the way into the battery compartment. Still several scissors and screw drivers and sellotape later it works champion style, sighs of relief echo through the house. Also paul discovered he had forgotton to get Gran anything...Back to the emergency present store and a tin of buiscuits were gratefully recieved.
Dinner was served, and the chat is varied and interrupted by the telephone which is Pat (John’s other brother.) Still the meal continues well and we eat an obscene amount of food, but it was good, apparently no one satisfies Mum better than Mario Lanza, which of course led to several other comments none really recountable here.
Mum decided to organise her own funeral with Stephen officiating. It is difficult when faced with such a request to avoid saying ‘I would be delighted.’ But some how, through experience he made the right noises. Mum thoroughly enjoyed herself and was despatched before Doctor Who. (Despatched as in driven home, not buried!!)
Then Jillian and Lauren came over and we unwrapped even more pressies, binned even more paper ate too much chocolate and played Catchphrase.
It was a good night until 12.15 when John and Paul fell out, something to do with singing-they are still barely speaking to one another but then it would not be Christmas if it was perfect would it?
Monday, December 24, 2007
Christmas Eve
There is a peculiar air of insanity that pervades the shops at this exact time of year, the move from buying tat to give tomorrow has given way to providing a feeding frenzy. Sharks dressed as little old ladies, ladies who lunch and the saggy eyed-why-am-I-standing-in-a-queue-in –Markies brigade who are contemplating the group insanity of rational people queuing for food at 6 in the morning- and wondering why, but strangely vindicated because they are not alone.
So why get up at an unreasonable hour? Because presumably there will be nothing left at 8am or perhaps it won’t be as fresh! NO it is insane organisation at its best…wait until the last day, pick up food as early as possible, feel righteously pious for sacrificing sleep to deliver the best possible raw ingredients to an already stuffed fridge.
I stood in the pre 8am slot at 7.55 (I am getting better at taking things to the wire –OU TMA experiences to thank for that!) and was astounded at the Disney snaked queue ahead of me. I was quite sure I was only one of a select few insane folk out, until I reached the car park, not choc-o-bloc but not empty, in fact half full. Markies was throbbing with people picking up bottles of Cava only to be reminded of the licensing laws. Strange flowers were perched on trolleys that Dale Winton would have been proud of, and the same trolleys were used to plough their way through any pretence of Christmas spirit.
I stood bemused in front of another weary person as I was asked for the letter I was sent. I received no letter, then I realised she meant the copy order…Order validated she quickly brought my organic turkey breast and ham joint to the till, flashing them across the bar code reader she realised the totals did not match, this was due to the fact that I had impulsively added croquettes and two mini Christmas puddings to the basket. She apologised, she had started at 6 and was obsessively double checking everything in case the wrong thing was given out. ‘Aha’ says brain ‘that’s why you are here early, you don’t trust them!’
Bags carted to the car and home at 8.20. To late to go back to bed, as smallest son has a heavy cold and is upset by the fact that he is losing his voice-he needs it for Christmas, and has woken throughout the night to make sure it was still there. So a dose of Calpol to accompany the Weetabix and orange juice and hot tears, is swiftly administered.
And now the big clean awaits. A day of berating family for being lazy buggers, and washing the skirting boards - Mum is coming for dinner tomorrow and you know it is the first place she will look. But rest assured she is sure to hone in on the things you missed. Like the windows or the unkempt grass or no pepper or teabags....
Well good luck guys, and may tomorrow bring peace and content to your homes.
P.S. My poem is lying in a thousand pieces, so I have to swept it into a shoe box for safekeeping!!
So why get up at an unreasonable hour? Because presumably there will be nothing left at 8am or perhaps it won’t be as fresh! NO it is insane organisation at its best…wait until the last day, pick up food as early as possible, feel righteously pious for sacrificing sleep to deliver the best possible raw ingredients to an already stuffed fridge.
I stood in the pre 8am slot at 7.55 (I am getting better at taking things to the wire –OU TMA experiences to thank for that!) and was astounded at the Disney snaked queue ahead of me. I was quite sure I was only one of a select few insane folk out, until I reached the car park, not choc-o-bloc but not empty, in fact half full. Markies was throbbing with people picking up bottles of Cava only to be reminded of the licensing laws. Strange flowers were perched on trolleys that Dale Winton would have been proud of, and the same trolleys were used to plough their way through any pretence of Christmas spirit.
I stood bemused in front of another weary person as I was asked for the letter I was sent. I received no letter, then I realised she meant the copy order…Order validated she quickly brought my organic turkey breast and ham joint to the till, flashing them across the bar code reader she realised the totals did not match, this was due to the fact that I had impulsively added croquettes and two mini Christmas puddings to the basket. She apologised, she had started at 6 and was obsessively double checking everything in case the wrong thing was given out. ‘Aha’ says brain ‘that’s why you are here early, you don’t trust them!’
Bags carted to the car and home at 8.20. To late to go back to bed, as smallest son has a heavy cold and is upset by the fact that he is losing his voice-he needs it for Christmas, and has woken throughout the night to make sure it was still there. So a dose of Calpol to accompany the Weetabix and orange juice and hot tears, is swiftly administered.
And now the big clean awaits. A day of berating family for being lazy buggers, and washing the skirting boards - Mum is coming for dinner tomorrow and you know it is the first place she will look. But rest assured she is sure to hone in on the things you missed. Like the windows or the unkempt grass or no pepper or teabags....
Well good luck guys, and may tomorrow bring peace and content to your homes.
P.S. My poem is lying in a thousand pieces, so I have to swept it into a shoe box for safekeeping!!
Friday, December 14, 2007
Mid December Malaise
Why is it when you have so much to do you cannot be bothered?
I started December well, the guts of a trash can novel written, an assignment completed in record time, my Christmas newsletter written and I even started writing those pesky penguin cards. A fortnight later and I am no further on, tree still in the loft, cards still on the table beside the address book, you get the picture! I have not been painting the town red (or indeed magnolia) nor have I escaped to some illustrious destination.
I have absolutely no excuse.
I have been working and even fiddling with a vague notion of poetry, which as ever is elusive. The harder I try the further away it gets from me. On reviewing one of my many note books I can see that this poem has been nagging me for some time…several months in fact….so I will have to let it come to me, whenever it decides that it wishes to be captured. In the meantime I am going to- cut up/ destroy/ tear apart-edit an old poem that needs editing.
This is uncharacteristically brave of me.
It was the first poem I ever wrote, the first I was truly proud of, and the first I ever showed anyone. I rather suspect I will kill it completely. But I have come to a point where I have to believe in myself, and try to make it a poem in the proper sense rather than its current pretend state, or admit defeat once and for all. No pressure then!
So in the words of a famously dead explorer…'I may be some time’
I started December well, the guts of a trash can novel written, an assignment completed in record time, my Christmas newsletter written and I even started writing those pesky penguin cards. A fortnight later and I am no further on, tree still in the loft, cards still on the table beside the address book, you get the picture! I have not been painting the town red (or indeed magnolia) nor have I escaped to some illustrious destination.
I have absolutely no excuse.
I have been working and even fiddling with a vague notion of poetry, which as ever is elusive. The harder I try the further away it gets from me. On reviewing one of my many note books I can see that this poem has been nagging me for some time…several months in fact….so I will have to let it come to me, whenever it decides that it wishes to be captured. In the meantime I am going to- cut up/ destroy/ tear apart-edit an old poem that needs editing.
This is uncharacteristically brave of me.
It was the first poem I ever wrote, the first I was truly proud of, and the first I ever showed anyone. I rather suspect I will kill it completely. But I have come to a point where I have to believe in myself, and try to make it a poem in the proper sense rather than its current pretend state, or admit defeat once and for all. No pressure then!
So in the words of a famously dead explorer…'I may be some time’
Sunday, December 2, 2007
December Woes
Here you are then December, the Christmas month of madness, planning and anxiety, of rash expectations.
Who will give that rogue present and send you into a guilt laden strop?
Have you ordered enough food for everyone? What if someone has turned veggie and not told you? Well, just in case, you should order in a small field of vegetables that’s what vegetarians eat isn’t it? Carrots, sprouts and onions, and nuts, better get a double packet of KP salted peanuts too.
You write cards from last year’s list on the basis that they always send you one. Can you honestly remember how they looked? How do they look now? How long is it since you last spoke, or saw each other? Why did the friendship that was once so vital and so alive simply wither away?
Why did you stop seeing them or speaking to them, who phoned last, is it your turn? No! You realise that it has always been you that has pursued the friendship, sent the cards, made the calls, visited, it was never them. You decide not to send the card this year. You feel guilty.
You look at the assortment of cards, Christmas penguins and polar bears and try to remember the parable in the Christmas story that they refer to, you can’t so you deem yourself a heathen and justify sending these cards as they are for charity.
You browse the Internet for the latest elusive gifts and find the over priced plastic abomination (that you would ignore in normal circumstances and will be ignored by boxing day) and pay twice its worth on E-bay, only to be pipped at the post by some other equally delusional parent.
You spend the month being nice to people you cannot stand because it is Christmas; you even send them cards ‘with love.’
Every one around you is belting out their favourite Christmas song, but you get really irate when the car that has driven to close to the pavement and sent a tsunami of cold brown rainwater running down your face, is pumping out a rap version of White Christmas.
Your child no longer believes in Santa Claus and subsequently you have lost all control over them.
Your partner is looking forward to the Office Christmas lunch and is planning a port and brandy challenge on his boss to see who can out drink each other. You search for the Christmas puke bowl and towel.
You look in the windows of Next and Marks and Spenser’s and immediately covet their golden chargers, glasses of lights and a centrepiece that will ensure that the only bells ringing on Christmas day will be the smoke alarm.
Your entire conversations consist of ‘This year has gone so fast’ and ‘I can’t believe it is nearly next year already.’
You dread the day works stops because of the horde of dirty drunken people determined to kiss you when all you really want to do is deck the bastards, with or without holly.
You have relied on the Christmas bonus to fund Christmas, only the boss is playing god again and has decided to plant a tree in your name this year. You stifle the urge to shout ‘stick the tree up your arse’ and smile real Eco friendly like.
Christmas eve, the postman delivers that card from 'you know who', the new neighbour’s 4 year old brings you a gift of wine and 'something for the kids', and you raid the Christmas tree hoping with unreasonable expectation that it will be something apt for a 4 year old. You hold the hastily ripped off gift card behind your back as you hand over a packet of Ann Sommers chocolate willies, something you do not realise until you return to work. Your youngest son tells you he wants an I pod instead of the plastic thingy that broke your smart new credit card. Your husband tells you that his brother and his wife (that you don’t get along with and is only a vegetarian when you are not prepared) and their three children will be coming for dinner too. Your son announces that he is not coming to midnight mass at 9pm because it is not traditional, instead will be at Campus getting rat arsed, which is also your preferred option, but you cannot because your brother in law is a priest and for the last 21 years you have always celebrated mass with him, and to break tradition now would be to invite the seven sisters of the apocalypse.
The day itself passes in a blur of paper, screams, laughter, tears, indigestion and mince pies. The night is dominated by lusty performances on Singstar and you are more than surprised that your mother sings the Britney Spears classic Hit me Baby one more time. You realise that if you do not get your 80 year old mother off the coffee table she will indeed be hit, probably by everyone. Especially your husband who had just got over the legitimacy of watching said original video and now has a gyrating mother in law superimposed on his memory.
Eventually taxis come people collapse and thanks ‘for the best Christmas ever’ echo though your once serene and tranquil home.
Once December is over you reminisce about how good it was to hook-up with family.
What wonderful gifts you received, and will wear once you have shed 3 stone.
You pack away the spare crackers and smelly gift sets. The Christmas tree is once again wrestled into the failing cardboard box and hoisted into the cavity above your heads, but not before bouncing off the light fitting and plunging the house into fused darkness. Christmas is over…..for now.
Who will give that rogue present and send you into a guilt laden strop?
Have you ordered enough food for everyone? What if someone has turned veggie and not told you? Well, just in case, you should order in a small field of vegetables that’s what vegetarians eat isn’t it? Carrots, sprouts and onions, and nuts, better get a double packet of KP salted peanuts too.
You write cards from last year’s list on the basis that they always send you one. Can you honestly remember how they looked? How do they look now? How long is it since you last spoke, or saw each other? Why did the friendship that was once so vital and so alive simply wither away?
Why did you stop seeing them or speaking to them, who phoned last, is it your turn? No! You realise that it has always been you that has pursued the friendship, sent the cards, made the calls, visited, it was never them. You decide not to send the card this year. You feel guilty.
You look at the assortment of cards, Christmas penguins and polar bears and try to remember the parable in the Christmas story that they refer to, you can’t so you deem yourself a heathen and justify sending these cards as they are for charity.
You browse the Internet for the latest elusive gifts and find the over priced plastic abomination (that you would ignore in normal circumstances and will be ignored by boxing day) and pay twice its worth on E-bay, only to be pipped at the post by some other equally delusional parent.
You spend the month being nice to people you cannot stand because it is Christmas; you even send them cards ‘with love.’
Every one around you is belting out their favourite Christmas song, but you get really irate when the car that has driven to close to the pavement and sent a tsunami of cold brown rainwater running down your face, is pumping out a rap version of White Christmas.
Your child no longer believes in Santa Claus and subsequently you have lost all control over them.
Your partner is looking forward to the Office Christmas lunch and is planning a port and brandy challenge on his boss to see who can out drink each other. You search for the Christmas puke bowl and towel.
You look in the windows of Next and Marks and Spenser’s and immediately covet their golden chargers, glasses of lights and a centrepiece that will ensure that the only bells ringing on Christmas day will be the smoke alarm.
Your entire conversations consist of ‘This year has gone so fast’ and ‘I can’t believe it is nearly next year already.’
You dread the day works stops because of the horde of dirty drunken people determined to kiss you when all you really want to do is deck the bastards, with or without holly.
You have relied on the Christmas bonus to fund Christmas, only the boss is playing god again and has decided to plant a tree in your name this year. You stifle the urge to shout ‘stick the tree up your arse’ and smile real Eco friendly like.
Christmas eve, the postman delivers that card from 'you know who', the new neighbour’s 4 year old brings you a gift of wine and 'something for the kids', and you raid the Christmas tree hoping with unreasonable expectation that it will be something apt for a 4 year old. You hold the hastily ripped off gift card behind your back as you hand over a packet of Ann Sommers chocolate willies, something you do not realise until you return to work. Your youngest son tells you he wants an I pod instead of the plastic thingy that broke your smart new credit card. Your husband tells you that his brother and his wife (that you don’t get along with and is only a vegetarian when you are not prepared) and their three children will be coming for dinner too. Your son announces that he is not coming to midnight mass at 9pm because it is not traditional, instead will be at Campus getting rat arsed, which is also your preferred option, but you cannot because your brother in law is a priest and for the last 21 years you have always celebrated mass with him, and to break tradition now would be to invite the seven sisters of the apocalypse.
The day itself passes in a blur of paper, screams, laughter, tears, indigestion and mince pies. The night is dominated by lusty performances on Singstar and you are more than surprised that your mother sings the Britney Spears classic Hit me Baby one more time. You realise that if you do not get your 80 year old mother off the coffee table she will indeed be hit, probably by everyone. Especially your husband who had just got over the legitimacy of watching said original video and now has a gyrating mother in law superimposed on his memory.
Eventually taxis come people collapse and thanks ‘for the best Christmas ever’ echo though your once serene and tranquil home.
Once December is over you reminisce about how good it was to hook-up with family.
What wonderful gifts you received, and will wear once you have shed 3 stone.
You pack away the spare crackers and smelly gift sets. The Christmas tree is once again wrestled into the failing cardboard box and hoisted into the cavity above your heads, but not before bouncing off the light fitting and plunging the house into fused darkness. Christmas is over…..for now.
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