The Real Spirit of Christmas

Countdown to Christmas has well and truly begun.  Anyone who knows me understands that I absolutely love this time of year – in fact to me Christmas Eve is the most romantic night in the calendar.  It’s an odd label to give this night, I know.  For many lucky people, it’s more about family and reflection; gratitude and peace.  And indeed, it is about all those things for me too, regardless of how unconventional the definition, given my reality of those terms, might be.  

However, there is something about the twinkling lights, the candle lit churches, the close cold nights and in the case of this beautiful year, the snow! that make it a perfect time for enjoying relationships – platonic as well as traditional.  In fact, I’d go as far as to say that I find Christmas time so romantic, I could be persuaded to re-marry should the right man come along and propose under the soft hue of fairy lights!  But I deviate…into the land of fantasy. 

It’s also the only time of year I attend church – even though I was brought up as Catholic as they come – European strength Christian, in fact.  So much so, I’m convinced I’d find Spanish crusade in my family tree if I cared to look.  I don’t...care to look - I mean imagine finding out that I have Spanish Inquisitors somewhere in the bloodline.  In any event I’ve long abandoned the irreconcilable, restrictive and intolerant nature of Dogma but I do still buy into the sentiment of love conquering all. 

This year is no different.  I can’t wait for the annual carol and crib service at the local church followed by (one must balance the virtuous with the ‘naughty but nice’) the customary tipple at the local wine bar with some dear friends and The Lish.  This has become a ‘Night Before Christmas’ tradition for her too not least because of the forbidden nature of being out at what she feels is late night (it’s usually all over by 7:30pm).

We then stroll back in a ‘Wizard of Oz’ hold…you know the one where Dorothy and the Scarecrow interlock arms to “follow the yellow brick road’ with me (the scarecrow by this point) in the warm embrace of mulled wine and Lishy in the grip of an electrifying excitement and all the while looking to the skies for a sign of Santa.

Then begins the whole business of subterfuge.  We peel and chop a couple of carrots for the reindeer…with me asking, do we really need to peel them?  These are wild animals after all??? But no, I must peel them.  Then the biscuits and milk for Santa.   Lately I’ve been asking if we can’t just leave him a whisky but no, Lishy points out that it’s for a reason drinking and driving is illegal.  OK then.

Finally, we sit and I enjoy the last few gorgeous and random moments of conditional juvenile obsequiousness before Lishy goes to bed, satisfied that she has done enough (albeit just in that last half hour) to have earned what she knows will be a hill of gifts the following morning.

The night has only really begun then for most parents of younger children.  If they’ve been organised, the presents will already be wrapped.  I only made the mistake once in my lifetime as a parent of leaving the wrapping until Christmas Eve.  These days all I have to do is wait for the tell tale sign of evenly spaced breaths coming from the nipper's bedroom to start the last bit of Yuletide rigmarole.

If untangling the fairy lights for the tree was cause for self-harm, getting the ladder out of the airing cupboard from behind the ironing board, under the vacuum cleaner and through mop handles that come alive like those in Disney's Fantasia, makes me remember why I support Euthanasia.  Only then can I begin to tackle the obstacle course of transporting gifts from their various hiding places.

Cussing at every snag and stub, I am driven by the pellucid knowledge that this is likely my very last year of pantomime.  I suspect Lishy herself knows it's not Santa making all that fucking racket but she is complicit for the sake of guaranteeing the bloated annual delivery of presents.  

That done, I reserve the last laugh for myself of course in the form of an 18 year old single malt by the light of the tree.  This, my friends, ends up being the real spirit of Christmas! ha ha Thank you, come again!!!

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DreamWeave

What's happening?

We’ve all had lucid dreams so I know you will relate.  I am compelled to commit this one to paper, so to speak because it was so incredibly powerful.  Now, I’ve had dreams that turned into premonitions, I’ve had dreams that were visits from lost loved ones  – I think we all have – and those in themselves are truly astounding experiences.  We have all also had those nonsensical ones that leave us over-tired and with a bad taste.  This one was different.

I woke with a start at what I imagine was around 5AM this morning, I couldn’t say for sure since I was too affected to even bother checking.  I remember the dream clearly.  I was visiting the city where a woman lived who in the dream plays my mother.  It certainly didn’t look or feel like her, but I knew this was who she was.  I was at an old, old family friend’s house; a girl I grew up with who was like a sister in that we fought like cats and dogs and we also shared baths as very young children.  I would always opt for the bubble-filled end of the tub while she preferred clear water.  I haven’t seen her in over 11 years. 

I remember her mother being in the dream too, playing herself – this one was not a stand-in like whoever was playing my mum.  She basically told me to go see my mum (for goodness sakes!) and funnily enough this was very much the character I remember growing up – quite a prickly woman but deep down had and has the most generous heart but most people either love or hate her and even those that love her can only take her in small doses.  We called her the Battle-Axe and I’m indebted to her for many things but mostly because she gave my mum a beautiful final resting place.

View from the cemetery where my dear mama rests in peace

I found the fact that I was being told to visit my mum odd because I had the most amazing relationship with her in life – now gone 24 years.  So even within this dream, while I was playing a role, I was also stepping out of that role to have those asides.  Nevertheless, I took this advice in the dream and even though it was very late and not really the safest time to go wandering the streets, I did leave my friend’s house to go see my mum.  I thought I’d surprise her and perhaps even climb into bed with her like I used to do as a child.  Again, it’s odd because in the dream it would suggest that I had somehow become estranged and hadn’t seen her in years.

In any event I make it to my mum’s flat.  It’s dark and I need to use the toilet and it’s while I am on the loo that another woman, butch but fit enters the bathroom to tell me basically I’m not supposed to be there.  I see my mum in the background who guessing I’d come to stay the night timidly informs me that she is sorry but she doesn’t have any spare towels.  I imagine this is her way of saying I can’t stay.  I get a feeling that in the time we’ve been estranged my mother has become gay and the butch but fit lady is her partner.

Mum was often told she looked like Gina Lollobrigida - there was a likeness. 

I do as I'm asked and leave, and it is at this time that I wake up with a start and feel the hot, plump tears of genuine sadness ooze down my face.  My whole face is wet with them and I cannot immediately stop.  I sit up and look around my empty - but for a slumbering cat – room where all I feel is an incredible melancholy.  I realise I still miss my mum so very much even though I’ve now been without her longer than I had her and I’m sure there are many out there who can relate.

What it also did was give me pause for thought that I must never allow a rift of that sort with my own daughter (fast asleep in the next room and unaware of my sorrow).  Apart from the fact that it would break my heart, I really don’t fancy the idea of lesbianism and I mean no offence by it, but it’s just not for me, I hope you understand.

I can relate some of that stuff to things in life – the spare towel is something I always put out for guests as a sort of welcome mat I now realise – even though they feel, I was told once, like 80 grade sandpaper (must get some new ones). 

I did also have a pint of K cider that evening.  7 pc proof – enough to provoke a nightmare nevermind a lucid dream.  I’m not sure why old family friends and the feeling of a rift, other than well, there is a rift between me and them at the moment that I’m not inclined to really make the first move around.  First world problem.  I may live to regret it but so far I’ve been fine with that decision.  Sometimes you have to take a stand when you feel strongly enough about it and I’ll leave it at that for the time being.

I made sure I gave The Lish the longest hug I could get away with later that same morning before she trotted off to school.

Oh and if I ever say I don't have any spare towels when you come round to mine, I guess you better make sure you know what time the last train is running.

Your guess is as good as mine...

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Into The Sort of Wild

Last week marked another little milestone for me and the Lish Losh.  We are officially one fifth of the way into her first year at secondary school and I can’t tell you how much life has changed for us both.  From walking herself to and from school to fending for herself after school for those few hours that mummy is still at work – it’s like we're different people living in another world.  

I had what is known as a 'moment' the first morning she left the flat before me.  For a second I finally understood what people mean when they say: "Enjoy them while they are young." The feeling of loss lasted one full second.  No more manic mornings! No more arriving at work and feeling like I’d already put in a full day.  Yay! Bless Lishy.  

She too is enjoying her newfound independence:  Have Bus Pass - Will Travel.  It is truly remarkable.  A vertical learning curve you might say for all involved but one that I hope is setting her up for later life in this frenzied world.

I decided then, on that basis, to make the very most of half term seeing as we’re now in that phase of life where holidays are the only time you get to bond in any meaningful way as a family.

In my quest to push bonding and quality bonding at that, to the top of the criteria, I knew I had to choose the location carefully.  A week in Portugal, much as we love, love, love it was just not going to cut it this time.  It had to be somewhere removed, somewhere where pleasures were simple and electric outlets in short supply.  I settled on the idea of glamping and booked this place on the Hampshire/West Sussex border: Adhurst Yurts.

All Inclusive Party Centrale

In my head I imagined a magical, enchanted elfin-like existence where courteous male faun creatures gingerly approach doorways and windows full of delicate curiosity.    Yeah, it was nothing like that.  But it was still enchanting.  How could it not be when presented with this view every morning to sip your coffee to?

People Watching

And you needed this mental respite to prepare for a shower under the canopy of Sycamore and Oak trees.  No roof.  It barely had a door.  This was the time to put all your pernickertiness into a plastic bag, hang it on a branch and hope the Monkjack deer and foxes were all otherwise occupied.

The ensuite

I would think of all the brown fat I was using just to keep my core body temperature at minimum survival level and went for it.  Amazingly Mayalicious loved the whole malarkey of open air ablutions and it was the one thing she didn't ever quibble about - which just goes to show the kind of monster I've created.  Who in their right mind likes showering outdoors?

So after the UHT morning special, we'd all set off for a long hike in the woods.  I should point out that I never travel alone with Lishy if I can help it.  To do so would be demented and most likely only lead to a custodial sentence.  No, I need a mate to diffuse and distract.  Lishy is afterall entering 'the difficult age' where I've discovered I'm unable to spend more than 3 minutes with her before thoughts of self evisceration begin to creep in.

Meet the Three Muskateers.  I'm sure the farm owners thought we were New Age lesbians with a child we got through a donation from a 'family friend'.  We're not.

Lesbians

We'd all set off then in search of the sort of peace and calm that only nature brings and you know what?  for the most part we found them (apart from the day we decided to walk down the A272 for 45 minutes instead of through fields and woods).   And when we'd had our fill of tranquil quiet, we'd march on down to any number of pubs that were to be found at the end of our hikes.  Like homing pigeons, we always found a pub.   But I'm making us out to be some kind of feathered yogic George Bests; I'll have you know we also did foraging - we picked wild raspberries and carrots at a nearby farm one afternoon with no pub in sight - mind you that night it was G&Ts all round at the cabin.

Combine Harvester not required

Monty Don's got nothing on me

Oh it all felt very wholesome.  The days were filled easily with "The Good Life' activities but we were always very wary to ensure we were back at camp a good hour before dusk for there were fires that needed building with which to cook and keep warm.  I became a proper little firestarter.

No Fire, No Food

There after as the night time spread its gossamer cover of darkness, thoughts would turn to survival.  Not the kind Bear Grylls teaches - more the sort that involves deciding whether to have one or two bottles of prosecco when it's 10:30 pm and the nearest loo is a long drop privy a good 5 metres from the cabin; Or knowing there were 5 hours before legitimate bedtime with only a pack of cards to keep us from braying at eachother.  But by the 3rd evening,  something wonderful happened.  We started talking; storytelling; playing out scenarios or having conversations about things that were on our minds starting with what we all thought of my ex-husband's new young Eastern European girlfriend, to talking about what to expect from puberty and most importantly which grossly overpriced branded beauty advent calendar we each wanted for Christmas (Charlotte Tilsbury for me and Libertys for Jane, my travel companion.) Maya just wanted slime.  Don't ask.  It's the new thing.

And so the hours would slowly peel away during what grew to become our favourite part of each day.

By the end we had exhausted all topics and played more Gin Rummy than anyone under the age of 55 should ever admit to.  Not once was a mobile phone taken out in the evenings other than to check whether time was standing still.  It was.

As with all good things, this too had to end.  We eeked out the last day by taking the scenic route home via the Jane Austen Museum (that's us in costume earlier on...honest) in Chawton where surprise surprise, we also found a super pub.

Not what it looks like  - just crouching!