Festivities over for another year, catapulted into 2013. What do the years 2013 and 1987 have in common? (< a small piece of trivia...to keep you hanging, in case people are reading, may need to jazz up with some alternative content. I know it's not quite a picture, Dad, but it's a start. Answer will be concealed somewhere in the text. If I remember.)
I had my first Christmas away from home (for home read family...not so much environment as company. And , Oh, what company...ahem. Family being my main readership.) and it was just fine. Christmas is one of those things that you can never know, barring films/TV, how closely your family resembles "normal". Unlike birthdays, where, by the age of 7 or 8 you've been to a fair few parties and pretty much worked out what the deal is with birthdays for other people, and parents I suppose are often guilted into providing the same for their brood, leaving the unfortunate(at the time, later cool and alternative) children with wacky parents to have some pass the parcel with a mouldy mushroom inside, pin the tail on the real life dog, cock-fighting, mathsattack, vegan sugar free feasts...etc. None of these things have happened to me, but I suppose they might have somewhere. I don't suppose I'm alternative enough to think up anything even vaguely not mainstream. My largest birthday disappointment (bar the most recent, rather upscaled and probably not under the banner of disappointment) came at the age of 4, ish. I bring it up fairly regularly, self-indulgent as I am.
I have always wanted a dog. Probably since I was born, and I have never ever had one, awful, I know. When I was 4 (ish) I had convinced myself I was getting a dog. I was absolutely certain of it. What I got was a cake, in the shape of a dog. Which is not only not a dog, but is a kind of cruel taunt, of look at what you don't have, a cute little puppy, look while we chop him up and eat him. I imagine this might be a kind of coming of age truth in Korea similair to finding out about Santa. Except with real dog. The dog was made of marzipan. On that day not only did I find out that I didn't have a dog, I found out I really severely disliked marzipan. Two of life's great disappointments. I have been further disappointed by sneaky marzipan, pretending to be something it wasn't, since, it will never grace a cake of mine.
Back to Christmas, it's something you generally spend with family, quite apart from friends, and that is likely how you spend it at least until you leave home, and possibly for years after. With the prospect of spending Christmas with someone else's family comes a fear...maybe we do it wrong. Does noone else wear fake santa beards for Christmas dinner? Does noone else have the useless present society? Or take bets on mentions of the Pope/spillage of wine/fire starting? One of the previous has never been true, the latter two are family institutions which have passed with their creators/subjects (I'm sure the traditions continue in heaven. Though I'm not sure what the take on fire is in heaven, and when you're in eternity is there such as useless? I don't really know). More recently we've performed back-seat theatre and decorated the stairs. I just had to hope we vaguely followed some kind of Christmas convention which I could apply to any situation. Turns out Christmas was good, and we had Christmas dinner on boxing day, which was just splendid. A very accommodating and welcoming clan, if I couldn't be with mine, I wouldn't have been anywhere other than there.
It was our first Patrick-less Christmas. It's been 6 months now since he died. I'd thought being away from family was maybe better, if we weren't all there the big gap wouldn't be so obvious. My sister was away anyway, and my brother (who is often in my conversation, followed up with the qualifier "not the one who died..." to stop the sharp breath, mid inhale, and the eyes turning to sad puppy dog as the grief alert blares...whoa! False alarm) was elsewhere, so really it would have just been Mum and Dad and I, and they're like old and boring and stuff...which would have been just fine, but instead we'll have a second Christmas when ma soeur is home, and I can see peerie bro on my way down.
I was only a wee bit sad at Christmas. Firstly because everyone was so lovely, and then because, as fine as everything is, there's still something missing. Everyone else is accounted for, except for him. I don't suppose that's something that will ever change. Not long after he died I had a dream I was getting married, everything was going horribly wrong, I was trying to do my hair which was half straight, half curly, and my make up which was all going wrong, while dad and Uncle Peef acting as ushers tried to make me drink Cobra beer they had hidden under a bus seat, and Fergus and Patrick told me they weren't coming, there'd be plenty people there, and they had heat up takeaway stuff to be eaten that night, but I'd have a fine time without them. My first Patrick dream, probably a bit selfish all in - I suspect it means he's not coming to my wedding. And so it goes on, 6 months along and for a few weeks over Christmas I think I kind of felt like it might be over soon, the same feeling I got when I went to secondary school, that it would be done soon and I'd be going back to Primary to the world I knew. Or when I started working, and kept waiting for it to finish, and the summer holidays to come round. You slowly get used to the fact this is it, it's not going to change. Obviously I know he won't be coming back, but there is a feeling after the first bit of sickness and horribleness, that it'll likely be over soon, he'll be back, and it'll be back to normal.
Christmas take 2 may have more to report back on, down to ma and pa's, Kate'll be home, we'll do a tour of relatives and see Fergus on the way. Looking forward to a little trip, and seeing everyone, which I really must try to do more often. My New Year's resolutions of writing, running and packed lunches are all but underway, with keeping in touch right up there in the writing stakes. I quite enjoy writing the odd card or letter, but don't do it often enough. I find writing quite therapeutic, and though it does seem a bit self-indulgent, especially now that I know people might be reading it, I'll try to keep it up. May have to think of some more interesting chapters. Create a bit of suspense, or emotion, or storyline to my life. 1987 and 2013? The last two years to be made up of 4 different digits, in case you were wondering.
Some chapters to come...
Recipes...this could maybe be a regular. I made sweet potato and red pepper soup, white chocolate and ginger cheesecake, sweet potato and cranberry bread and white chocolate and raspberry roulade (that recipe courtesy of a far better cook than me, and a million times better when she made it, but tasty nonetheless). I got some baking books and cook books for Christmas, I would really need to get practicing if I am ever to get a place in the Cunningsburgh show. Now I live in the southend I think I might absorb some goodness by osmosis which will help in my endeavours. Undoubtedly.
Running...this will hopefully feature again. Especially given aforementioned commitment to baking practice.
Peanut Butter. The ups and downs, love, hate, denial. Toast, bread, crunchy, smooth. What more could you need in a story?
My family. Or I have toyed with one each...depends how much I decide is publishable I suppose. Which really makes them sound quite awful, or controversial. Perhaps they are. (< story hook...I could be so good at this writing gig.)
People I wish I was more like...I'm not very good at famous people, so I'm afraid this will mostly be based on people I know. It may have included David Attenbrough, until I found out he doesn't like playing games, I can't possibly boycott "Africa" on the basis of that, but I don't love him quite as much as I once did. The truths that come out as you age are not pleasant. Santa's allegedly not real, dogs are made of marzipan, David Attenbrough might be a grumpy old man. Sometimes.
Boxsets. I'm like a post Christmas junkie. 24 and chocolate coins. It may not end well.
Well that was a bit of a rambler. Manana, manana, banana, banana *
L
* this only works if you imagine the correct Spanish punctuation and superimpose it on banana too. By "works" I don't think I mean that it's funny. Maybe more of an auditory joke - but if you do it in a Spanish accent, with gesticulation, and it's still not funny, you can only blame yourself. I gave you the content, I have made people laugh with it.
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