Is it idle-wifely going to your Mothers for Christmas dinner? Or is it just lucky? Lucky, yes, I would say….. but real lucky would be going to Australia for Christmas and staying with your best friend in Australia! I can dream…..

 While I have enjoyed a variety of Christmas’ in my time including one in the southern hemisphere and one stateside, for the past three years my tradition is to go to my mothers for Christmas and lull around for a week. Or can I call that a tradition? My motivation is simple, Darling son gets to spend extended time with his cousins, who are the nearest to siblings he will have and I get to spend time with my parents and siblings who are not geographically accessible to me the rest of the year. That is to say during the rest of the year we are hampered by distance, work and other commitments and I visit as often as I can but we don’t have drop in relationships.

 Another bonus is that my home of origin is unusual in the sense that there is loads of room, oodles of company and heaps happening in and around the place i.e. you don’t have to go far for company or entertainment. It is a very comfortable house with ensuite bathrooms; sky tv, broadband and a sort of room service that if you leave your dirty laundry by the washing machine, it will reappear two days later neatly folded on your bed. Not ironed, as the housekeeping fairy that for paying quests!

And her kitchen…..by comparison to my kitchen at home, my mother’s kitchen is the cordon bleu in a simple unsophisticated way. Ample worktop space, every pot, pan or vessel in any number of varying sizes; double oven, endless store of vegetables someplace else, supermarket across the road just in case and to beat the band this visit, we could see the eclipse of the moon on New Years Eve from her kitchen skylight. Wow! On the downside to the more the merrier rule, the potatoes peeling was endless….

Actually, for the week the only thing you really need to do is put your head outside the door for fresh air every so often or even just to see if anything is stirring. Not that this need for air is essential by any means as the air inside is constantly turned over by all the hot air that is generated when we all get together! Exercise does not come into it!

So as it happens, Christmas 2009 was a marathon lulling around session. I read an article in a national paper last week where the author spoke about the likelihood that he was so lulled out that he could take a nap on the way to the kitchen to get some leftover stuffing to go with his bowl of trifle. Yes, my kind of lulling also, food coma here we come.

Or, maybe it was the lull after the storm. Mr Mack & I always have a hard time negotiating the festivities et al, if the truth be known. While I go for the bigger picture, he just wants a few half hours at home with his family to do the things he wants to do on the days that he just wants to do them! He is the sentimental one. So the process every year is stormy. Need I elaborate?

But this year to beat all others, on top of the natural rhythm of Christmas lulling, this year we had snow! A full week of snow, snow on the rooftops, snow on the roads and even snow driving home for Christmas. Then when we got here, there was a fabulous blanket of peace and quiet on the environs as well as added caution when contemplating leaving the house, icy roads, slippy footpaths, no water, hats, gloves and all that! Nonetheless, we still ventured out occasionally with a new respect for the world, respect in the sense of thinking twice before putting new footprints in the freshly fallen snow and changing the landscape forever.

And that is certainly a new skill to practice in the New Year, strengthened by a week old lulling. Bring in the new and respect the old. Happy New Year to everyone.

 I’m with you Distracted Mum (28 Oct) re acceptances to invitations as if they’re not a commitment of any sort.  Just plain rude.  You set up a soiree and think you have enough to make it fun, but not so many that you’ve over-invited and not so few that it would be hard work and lo and behold a couple of days before the event someone/people say “oh are you going ahead with that?  I didn’t realise, I can’t come now”   Uggghhhhh. 

 I wondered was it just ME being paranoid.  That perhaps my events aren’t so great, my company not sizzling, ideas lame  . . . “do you think they’ll find us boring” I ask Dear and he looks at me in that quizzical way of his.  I might say that these ideas are all contrary to feedback after I do organise an occasion. 

In my mature wisdom, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not ME it’s THEM.  They are the ones with the immature issues.  They should think themselves lucky to be included in my plans.

There’s no excuse for speeding. There really isn’t. There is nowhere that you need to be, nothing you need to do, no one that you need to see so urgently that it’s worth risking potentially taking someone’s life for it.

I have a tremendous ability to put myself in a zone where I concentrate entirely on the moment, on getting where I need to be, doing what I need to do, getting to whoever I need to get to without thinking beyond that immediacy. I was a speeder. A very out of control, very determined, very much in denial speeder. I’m not anymore.

I have a friend to thank for saving me from myself. My friend will not let me speed, persists in craning to see the speedometer if there’s any chance that I might be close to exceeding the speed limit and has become my conscience. I have to admit that this constant supervision of my driving really irritated me. But it only irritated me because I knew I was in the wrong. And, as I think I’ve alluded to here before, I hate being proven wrong.

I was on my way home from a football match a few weeks ago. I may or may not have been exceeding the speed limit. I honestly don’t know. My conscience was not in the car with me. And on a very straight, very long stretch of road a cat ran out in front of the car. I couldn’t stop. I pulled in a little bit further on, far enough so that I couldn’t actually see the carnage on the road. I was inconsolable with grief. I love cats. I have two myself. I knew there was no way that the cat could have survived. There was a chilling sense of finality to that bump under my right front wheel. As I looked back in my rear view mirror, I saw a car stop and a gentleman got out and crossed to the centre of the road and knelt down. He went back over to his car and then returned and I really don’t know what he did. Maybe the cat was still alive, maybe he brought it to a vet and it lived. Maybe he was a vet and he took it out of its misery. I hope so.

In any case, that brings me to a blog I wrote a few weeks ago about my absolute favourite book of all time “The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to read it. It doesn’t really matter. It’s a very beautiful and very poignant microcosm of human relationships. It pares away the bullshit and takes you to the very heart of the subject. It’s childlike in its simplicity. In the way that children tell you things as they are, before they are subjected to all of life’s influences, so too The Little Prince lays it bear before you.

My favourite piece since I was first introduced to it some 20 years ago is the piece on friendship called The Fox.

It was then that the fox appeared. “Good morning” said the fox. “Good morning” the little prince responded politely although when he turned around he saw nothing. “I am right here” the voice said, “under the apple tree.” “Who are you?” asked the little prince, and added, “You are very pretty to look at.” “I am a fox”, the fox said. “Come and play with me,” proposed the little prince, “I am so unhappy.” “I cannot play with you,” the fox said, “I am not tamed.” “Ah please excuse me,”said the little prince. But after some thought, he added: “what does that mean—’tame’?” You do not live here,” said the fox, “what is it you are looking for?” “I am looking for men,” said the little prince. “What does that mean—tame?” “Men,”said the fox, “they have guns, and they hunt. It is very disturbing. They also raise chickens. These are their only interests. Are you looking for chickens?” “No,” said the little prince. “I am looking for friends. What does that mean—tame?” “It is an act too often neglected,” said the fox. “It means to establish ties.” “To establish ties?” “Just that,” said the fox. “to me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world. . .” “I am beginning to understand,” said the little prince. “There is a flower. . .I think she has tamed me. . .” “It is possible,” said the fox. “On earth one sees all sorts of things.” “Oh but this is not on the earth!” said the little prince. The fox seemed perplexed, and very curious. “On another planet?” “Yes” “Are there hunters on that planet?” “No” “Ah that’s interesting! Are there chickens?” “No” “Nothing is perfect,” sighed the fox. But he came back to his idea. “My life is very monotonous,” he said. “I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat. . .” The fox gazed at the little prince, for a long time. “Please—tame me!” he said. “I want to, very much,” the little prince replied. “But I have not much time. I have friends to discover, and a great many things to understand.” “One only understands the things that one tames,” said the fox. ” Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all ready made at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me. . .” “What must I do, to tame you? asked the little prince. “You must be very patient,” replied the fox. First you will sit down at a little distance from me -like that-in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day…” The next day the little prince came back. “It would have been better to come back at the same hour,” said the fox. “If for example, you came at four o’clock in the afternoon, then at three o’clock I shall begin to be happy. I shall feel happier and happier as the hour advances. At four o’clock, I shall be worrying and jumping about. I shall show you how happy I am! But if you come at just any time, I shall never know at what hour my heart is ready to greet you. . . One must observe the proper rites. . .” “What is a rite?” asked the little prince. “Those also are actions too often neglected,” said the fox. “They are what make one day different from other days, one hour different from other hours. There is a rite, for example, among my hunters. Every Thursday they dance with the village girls. So Thursday is a wonderful day for me! I can take a walk as far as the vineyards. But if the hunters danced at just any time, every day would be like every other day, and I should never have any vacation at all.” So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near— “Ah,” said the fox, “I shall cry.” “It is your own fault,” said the little prince. “I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you. . .” “Yes that is so”, said the fox. “But now you are going to cry!” said the little prince. “Yes that is so” said the fox. “Then it has done you no good at all!” “It has done me good,” said the fox, “because of the color of the wheat fields.” And then he added: “go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in all the world. Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I will make you a present of a secret.” The little prince went away, to look again at the roses. “You are not at all like my rose,” he said. “As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made a friend, and now he is unique in all the world.”

Two nights ago, I made the same journey home from our final football match of the season. It was a great night. We won. We won’t be relegated. I drove carefully. The approach to the road where I had driven over the cat is a 60kmph zone. I was driving at 50kmph. I know I was because I had been watching. I turned the corner onto that fateful road and advanced down it. Although the speed limit increased, I continued driving slowly. At almost the exact spot where I had been unable to stop weeks previously a most beautiful, large fox stepped off the pavement onto the road. He was completely at ease, unhurried, almost challenging me as he turned to look at the approaching car. I was able to stop easily and watched him saunter nonchalantly across to the far side and mount the pavement.

I do believe I’ve been tamed.

Another old friend that is not on my radar these days is alcohol, would you believe? I gave up drink for a while last year while I was on dietary reform and guess what? I have just not really gone back to it.

At the time it was conscious decision but in hindsight it may be more like a conscious choice. If I did not drink, I felt that I could have a dessert so I am not sure if that approach was in the spirit of the program or not!

Anyway, my personal relationship with alcohol was never very committed. I certainly enjoyed drinking and definitely experienced all those rites of passage associated with same, but that does seem like a long time ago. I can even remember getting drunk on a fiver,  and I was not an underage drinker! Then, when I was working, there was nothing more exciting than a free bar but I can remember always drinking steadily and not being interested in the cocktail list or the last minute banking of bumper drinks just before closing. Saying that, I do remember Mr. Mack working through a full cocktail list with pride on one occasion enjoying the perks of my job obviously!

Thankfully, we both matured and have moved onto finer things and maybe our drinking has become more of a science than an art form. ‘Well darling, this has a good appearance, full bodied, with long legs, its complexity, character and potential is second to none!’ Now there’s a mouthful.

Either way regardless of the quality, unless there was some lively company to go with the long legs, I usually find myself nodding off on the sofa. I believe that it must be an age thing, because I was not always like that but it has ruled out drinking at home with Mr Mack in recent years. Or maybe I am being kind suggesting it was the wine? Mr Mack would say that Friday night tv viewing had something to do with it also!

But where am I with it allnow? Strangely I find myself driving to some parties and not too bothered whether I drink or not. That is not to say there aren’t exceptions to that, there are but none of it feels too critical anymore.

Maybe it’s a case of a night out is not all about drinking particularily when I can have a dessert!!

I got an invitation today that I did not want and I came away wondering what was going on for me? In reply, I felt as if I was ducking and diving and on reflection, I was decidedly uncomfortable with how I had responded. Reflection is great but not good in the moment, if you know what I mean!

Lest you get the wrong impression of me, heaven forbide, the invitation was to do something that we used to do when we were closer friends and it was exciting. Nothing sinister at all!

Things have changed for me and  this event is not on my radar at the moment. Maybe I am too busy or maybe it’s the event? Who knows, but what I do know is that it is not grabbing my attention at the moment. Maybe I need a change?

Anyway, my way of dealing with the situation was to give an honest answer in the moment but deep down I know that I was hedging my bets, hoping that the request would not come to a head and I would not have to stand up and be counted. Why could I not just say no? Even proffer an excuse? But thinking on my feet is not my strong point especially where this person is concerned.

A bit of me felt, presumptuously of course, that if I said no, I would hurt the other person’s feelings. No doubt there is a bit of that in all of us. Let’s just say that that is my good girl complex coming through. A bit of me did not want to miss out, it could be good fun, but another bit of me was reticitient getting involved.

This has happened to me before when the shoe is on the other foot i.e. I have fallen off other friend’s radar over the years. And I do mean I have fallen off their radar! Shock, horror! For me it’s important to believe that it is not my fault, of course, and that I have done everything in my power to maintain the relationship. (When Mr. Mack reads this admission, he will smile.)

But in today’s situation, it is me that wants to change the ground rules and maybe, I am faced with another girl with a good girl complex who does not want to hurt my feelings. Now, there’s a thought! 

Distracted Mum may have an opinion on this but I would sum up by saying that sometimes it is easy to over-analyse things! Keep it simple, and beware of your good girl complex!

We own an awful lot of books in our house. We thought when we re-designed the house last year that we had provided ample shelving to accommodate those that we already owned and those that we would buy in the future. I have to say that I like nothing better (slight exaggeration) than browsing in a bookshop. You can lose yourself in the biography section or even the gardening section for hours. I generally flit between all sections, pulling random books from the shelves and occasionally marvelling that I have found something I never knew existed but suddenly feel I cannot live without. And aren’t those the best? Those treasures that have sat on that shelf for ages until someone plucks them out, deigns to peruse the blurb on the back of the dust jacket, has one’s curiosity sufficiently piqued to open the cover and read a few pages. It’s like finding a new friend, someone who comes out of the blue in the most unexpected of encounters and you just know that you won’t be disappointed. Sometimes of course, first impressions can be deceiving and you might get half-way through the book only to discover that the story that looked so promising is let down by the author’s lack of imagination or heavy-handedness or inability to bring the reader along or continually draw the reader in. But when you come across that treasure that makes you long to get home to continue it and everything else becomes unimportant and suddenly you have forgotten to eat and are waking early and going to sleep late in order to find out what happens next, well isn’t it the best feeling in the world?

No computer, no facebook page, no blog, no film, no TV show will ever replace it. A good book is a friend forever, one you can read once, put away, find in a year’s time, dip into it again, and in which you see a little more each time.

I’m a hoarder and especially a hoarder of books. I can’t bear to throw any out, even ones I know I will never read again. Invariably, there’s the one that was given to me by someone important to me, another I bought at a specific time in my life that I want to remember, another that was found on the floor of a friend’s flat in college and brings back memories of that friend letting a fillet of mackeral fall on the kitchen floor in that flat of dubious cleanliness and promptly scooping it up and serving it for dinner. But today I decided that I will never again need “The Law of Tort” or JCA Gaskin’s “Quest for Eternity”. Granted they looked very impressive in my living room and defined me as someone of great intellect and intellectual endeavour, but I’m beyond impressing people with books that I neither read when I was actually in college nor intend to read in the future, and thus I decided to cull my rapidly expanding book collection earlier on today so that it would fit on the shelves that were designed for it. And that was when a slim little paperback ended up on my bed amid all the beautiful, leather-bound, hand stitched volumes that have been passed down through generations and the Richard and Judy recommended holiday reads and the German dictionaries and the scores of lifestyle books (I admit to an obsession with reflexology – three separate books on the subject) and at least fifty foreign language books (one day I did read them, well some of them, and some day again I intend to try and finish most of them). But there it was in the middle of that mass of literature, a book that I dip into again and again but haven’t had time to for some months, “The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. If you haven’t read it, treat yourself. Don’t do it on a day when you are rushed, don’t expect to find within its pages the answers to all your questions but prepare to be inspired and prepare to be jolted a bit and prepare to shed a tear. This is one of the most innocent books you will ever read, it’s one of the most gentle too, but behind that innocence and gentleness are some astonishing revelations about human nature and you will find yourself in it along with your family, your enemies, your lovers and most of all your friends. It might even change your outlook on life. Today it changed mine, again.