FLOWER GIRL

So it's is goodbye to ..

.. and in with a new year. I love the start of a new year - it's a bit like having a brand new jotter. A time for new beginnings, every seems clean and untarnished and full of opportunity. Conversely, I have never much liked New Year's Eve. It's all too easy to feel a social misfit because you are not having the party of a lifetime and because you do not feel any peace and goodwill towards the drunken idiot that has stamped on your toes and slopped drink (and worse) over you.

The very best New Year's Eve I've experienced was a couple of years ago, when my Man and I got togged up and walked to a nearby hotel for a New Year's Eve dinner and dance. It was very jolly indeed - perhaps a little too jolly, because ever since that night, the hotel has declined to open its party doors to non-residents. Possibly because Neville, the one-man band, had too many party poppers aimed at him by the people on the next table (ahem).

Nowadays, I prefer to either spend the evening having a meal with friends or family provided that the television remains firmly switched off. For, to me, there are few things more guaranteed to depress than an evening watching Jools Holland's Annual Hootenanny or seeing in the New Year Live in some city or the other. I blame it on too many evenings spent watching TV on New Year's Eve at the ex-inlaws, culminating in a genteel sherry toast at midnight. Arrrgggggh! Is it any wonder that the most memorable New Year's Eve spent at home in front of the telly was when a presenter clung gamely to a gantry in a gale- and rain- lashed Edinburgh, with empty streets behind him, still trying to crank up a party atmosphere seemingly unaware that everyone else had gone home.

And tonight marks another first New Year's Eve for me. The stepson has asked to come over and spend it with us. It is a bit of a mystery why a 25 year-old should opt to spend it with us DVD watching and playing cards, but for me it is a very nice end to the year.

Happy New Year to everyone, and may your celebrations go with a bang!

I’m not going to bother making any New Year’s resolutions.  There’s no point. One, I never keep them.  Two. I don’t have any bad habits (ahem).   So I’ve decided instead to have a list of 2008 wishes:

1.    The word(s) I would most like to disappear from people’s vocabulary: extremism, war, child abuse

2.    The interests that I would most like to learn how to do properly: play the piano, water colour painting, ballroom and latin dance

3.    The soap opera I would most like to have a Christmas Day 2008 show in which all the cast, the set, the scriptwriters and anyone else responsible for the programme meet a tragic and permanent show-stopping end: Eastenders

4.    The people (other than family, and if they were still alive!) that I would most like to spend 24 hours stuck in a traffic jam or airport next Christmas: Jane Austen, Paul O’Grady, Jo Brand, Laurel & Hardy, J K Rowling and Alexander the Great.

5.    The celebrity that I would most like to take early retirement by next Christmas: so many to choose from but Katie Jordan Price (and her family).

6.    The business I would least like to go into insolvency:  John Lewis or Hotel Chocolat

7.    The country that I would most like to visit in 2008: Costa Rica (or Namibia, or …)

8.    The city break I would most like to take in 2008: Bologna or Marrakesh

9.    The food that I would most like to sample for the first time in 2008: Heston Blumenthal’s, particularly his Perfect Trifle.

10.    The TV programme I would like to see more of: Strictly Come Dancing

11.    The one thing that would make my life less stressful: a well-behaved dog.

12.    The person with whom I would like to spend the most time in 2008 (and eternity): you know who you are (no, it's not you, Johnny Depp, but it was a close call)

Oh dear.  So indecisive.  I hope someone else will have a go, so I can pinch your ideas to add to my list!

I kept reading horror stories about the effects of over-eating at Christmas. You know the kind of thing: the average person puts on 5lb over Christmas, the average person eats 4,000 to 6,000 calories of food on Christmas Day alone (that's almost twice and thrice the recommended daily calorie intake for an average woman) and how you would have to walk 13 miles, rather than waddle around the block, just to burn off the calories from Christmas lunch.

Not me, I thought smugly. Admittedly, my jeans feel a little tighter than usual. But it was moderation for me. I don't like Christmas Pudding and Brandy Butter, or Bread Sauce or Egg nog. And my family either ate or hid all the crisps and peanuts, which would have been my dietary downfall. So, when I calculated my festive feast footprint, I was pretty confident that my feet would have left a dainty sized shoe print. NOT so! It seems I will be painting the house for eternity to make amends. AND I couldn't even be honest about the number of glasses of red wine I had drunk, because the scale didn't go high enough.

To offset the 3105 calories you've added to your diet this Christmas you will need to complete the following 13 tasks.
1 Go for a 25 minute run
2 Dance for 60 minutes one night next week
3 Swim for 25 minutes
4 Spend 80 minutes cooking
5 Swap your next Danish pastry for 2 pieces of fruit
6 Next time you are having a roast dinner avoid the Yorkshire pud and have extra veg instead
7 Top your pie with mashed potato instead of pastry
8 Making a chicken casserole? Take the skin off and add in more chopped vegetables like carrots and parsnips
9 Go for a 40 minute bike ride
10 Next time you fancy pasta, have tomato and vegetable sauce instead of creamy carbonara
11 Spend 100 minutes painting the house
12 Swap your lamb korma for a vegetable biryani
13 Play 35 minutes of football in the park

A game of footie, anyone?

Yesterday evening, when I marched into the bedroom, tape measure in hand, my husband looked decidedly alarmed. “You’ve been reading those women’s mags again, haven’t you?” he said accusingly. “No I haven’t” I replied indignantly. What I have been reading is one of my Christmas presents, a book called ‘taking the proverbial’ by Geoff Rolls. The book explores the psychology of proverbs and sayings, to see whether they truly provide useful and reliable advice and explanation.

The expression ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder’ has always puzzled me. It seems so self-evident given that no one person is the same, so their perception of beauty must differ. (Having said that, I’ve yet to come across a woman that thinks Johnny Depp is ugly.) However, it has always seemed to me that it is society that determines our definition of beauty, such as Chinese once considered extremely small feet to be so beautiful that women had their feet broken and bound.

Even in British society, you only have to look at portraits and photos to see how the perception of beauty changes with the times. Portraits of the Gunning sisters, renowned beauties in the 1750s, make it difficult to understand how these two women were considered so beautiful that they were mobbed when they appeared in public so that people could take a look at them. But fast forward to the film stars of the 50s and 60s, such as Elizabeth Taylor, Ava Gardner, Audrey Hepburn and Elizabeth Taylor, and it is easier to see why they were considered so beautiful. Beauty today, however, now seems less obvious to define when top models and celebrities often follow the pneumatic-chested, scrawny-everything else, unwashed look.

The answer, according to Geoff Rolls, apparently lies in geometry. Research has proven that best underlying indicator of beauty is symmetrical features, a finding that is consistent across cultures. The Ancient Greeks too believed that beauty could be calculated by mathematical principles. A famous beauty, such as Helen of Troy, would have had a face of ‘golden proportion’ – in which the width of the face should be two-thirds of its length, preferably accompanied by a nose no longer than the distance between the eyes.

Hence the tape measure experiment in our bedroom. And I am extremely sorry to have to report that far from launching a 1,000 ships, my husband and I would be extremely lucky if we could persuade a leaky dinghy to take to the water for us.

My ability to muddle up the words of Christmas carols is fairly legendary in our household - I can only manage "Deck the house with shades of holly" despite increasingly irritable corrections from my nearest and dearest. Now, to my astonishment, I have just realised that for the last few decades I have also been getting the words wrong to one of my all-time favourite songs - The House of the Rising Sun.

Personally, I think the Animals have got it wrong - and it really should be my version of 'and the only time that he's satisfied, is when he's on the run' rather than 'when he's all drunk'. And as for that last bit, when they sing 'Well, I've got one foot on the platform" - I have to be honest and admit that I've never worked that one out. Instead I use my hallmark standby "Fa la la la la, la la la la' nicked from Deck the house ...'

Having now got the proof at last of the real version, I am wondering what other classics I have misheard all my life. Does anyone else have this problem, or am I all alone?

Christmas lunch preparations in hand, Mr Gant and I took Dog for a pre-lunch walk to the village.  En route, my brother appeared.  ‘Just going for a quick drink before lunch.  Come along, I’ll have a round ready for you”, he said cheerily.   Realising that if we wanted a conversation with him this Christmas, it was now or never, so we agreed.  Not that we needed much persuasion. I have never been in a pub on Christmas Day and was curious.

There were only five other people in the pub when we entered, a bemused Dog in tow.  Minutes later, the door burst open and streams of people came in.  And three other dogs, one of which was nattily dressed in a green and red felt Christmas waistcoat.  (Sadly, his matching hat with a bell had been stolen by another dog and buried in a manure heap.)  The pub was soon full to bursting point.

I have always wondered why anyone would even want to go to the pub on Christmas Day (apart from wanting to speak to their brother, that is).   Well, now I know.  Some of them were villagers who didn’t normally visit the pub but were evidently keen to find a distraction from their families and visitors.   But most people had been there the evening before and wanted to collect an endurance award for being capable of coming back the next day.   All were eager to relive or learn about the gossip and highlights of the evening before: how old Alf, who had restricted his alcohol intake to a half pint of bitter each night for the last twenty years, had been given a glass of whisky or two and then made a spectacle of himself, how Dave had got a bit too familiar with someone’s wife and had his face slapped, how someone else had keeled over the minute they had stepped into the fresh air.  And, most memorable of all apparently, Ann's 'poledance'.

Most seemed to know each other well and everyone knew my brother.  So I felt a bit poignant when I realised that I only recognised one other person in the pub.  Because this was the village I grew up in from the age of seven before leaving home to go to college .   At one point I knew everyone in the village.  .  I mentioned this to my brother.  He was astonished.   “Surely you remember D. over there” he said.  “And that’s S.  And over there in the corner is S. and P. – you used to go with them to the disco until you were seventeen”.

And to my absolute horror, I realised he was right.  Some of these grey, middle-aged people were my old school pals.  My memory of them dates from thirty years ago.  And in my mind, when I return home as a daughter and sister, we are all still teenagers. And as they didn’t appear to recognise me either, what did that say about my appearance?   It was like being introduced to your very own instantly-ageing process.    

There was only one thing to be done.  I made a mental note to book a hairdresser’s appointment and a facial after Christmas and then had a second glass of wine.  There’s nothing like going back home late for Christmas lunch and having to face an irate mother to make you feel young again.

Last Friday evening, one of the coldest nights of the year so far, the power went off in our block.  Somebody evidently notched up the thermostat by a few degrees at the same time as switching on their Christmas lights.  Luckily, I was sat reading in front of a log fire at the time, so I could see well enough by firelight to find a few scented candles and matches, then a small torch.  Outside it was the coldest night of the year, everything glimmered and glistened white with frost in the starlight and moonlight, unpolluted by artificial light.

I was warm, safe and the room smelt heavenly. For the first time in ages, I was unable to do anything other than sit and think.   It was a magical moment, and reminded me that the simplest things in life can give the most pleasure.   And one of the things I am determined to do henceforth is to take a few moments each day to just sit and be.  But how grateful I am for electricity – the thought of being deprived of all the things we take for granted: being able to read and paint without straining your eyesight, let alone use a computer, watch a TV, use the telephone or do practical chores makes me glad that loss of power is a relatively rare occurrence.

Back at home after the family Christmas.  What bliss!  It was predictably chaotic, but my parents loved every minute of it (which is the most important thing), we survived (almost as important) – and my brother lived to see another Christmas (which is a miracle).

The plan was that I would cook Christmas lunch for us, my parents and my brother, leaving my mother free to do the final preparations for the Boxing Day do and my father free to make all the arrangements for the children’s games.   And if someone had been dishing out awards on Christmas Day, then I would have walked away with the top award for the most Naively Optimistic Person in the World, whilst my mother would have swept the board in the Competition for the Most Disorganised Woman in the Universe.  Far from putting the finishing touches to her social-do, she spent Christmas Day still trying to find where she had hidden her grandchildren’s presents and then wrapping them.  

Thank heaven for Gordon Ramsay – or rather his easy, prepare-ahead Fillet Steak with Wild Mushroom Gratin Christmas lunch.  At 10.30 am on Christmas Day I was trying to doing the pre-cooking of this, surrounded by a posse of people making concentration hard.  My mother appeared at regular intervals asking which granddaughter she should give a particular trinket to, my father kept coming in and presenting me with a Murder Mystery Clue to solve as he was laying a trail around the house.  And my brother turned up to say Merry Christmas – at least that’s what we think he mumbled. It could just as easily have been 'make mine a pint'.

He had spent all of Christmas Eve and the first quarter of Christmas Day out drinking.  His appearance at 10.30 am was merely a token Christmas present to his liver, as he promptly announced that we was intending to go to the pub for a quick drink before lunch.  And his Christmas present to me, whilst I was trying to make a wild mushroom gratin, was to re-enact all the various dramas that had played out in the village pub the night before.

Which leaves me with rather high hopes of one day being the sister of a famous actor.  Because provided my brother is presented with a never-ending sequence of roles calling for someone impersonating a drunk person, then fame and fortune is surely inevitable.  I am convinced that there isn’t an actor in the world who could give a better performance as a woman called Ann climbing onto a pub table and doing a dance with an imaginary pole before collapsing into a coat stand as my brother did on Christmas day with the benefit of several pints still coursing through his blood system.   Except perhaps Ann herself, whoever she is - if she has come round yet.

Well, I've moaned a lot about Christmas. But today I had a timely reminder that I shouldn't .

This time last year, my dad was in hospital. He had an accident, and like a lot of people his age (80), it wasn't so much the accident but the shock to his system that proved dangerous. We thought he might not see another Christmas. But he despite ill-health, he has had a new lease of life, and is loving every moment, now that Christmas has come around and he is planning treasure hunts and the like for our extended family Christmas - the one I complained about a few days ago. And I was reminded of how fortunate he - and we - are, by a neighbour who lost his elderly mum this year. For the first time in years, she will not be around to worry over, fuss over, drive him and his partner mad. He is having to settle for a genteel sherry and mince pie with a neighbour.

And later still, walking Dog once again. The other side of the coin. We bumped into another border collie. Dog doesn't mind Harry (unless he dares try to come up for 'her' biscuits as supplied by Harry's owner) so there was no trouble. But we were puzzled, because he wasn't with his usual walker - Stan - but an elderly woman. So we tentatively asked if the dog was indeed the Harry that we normally met on the cliffs. 'Yes', the lady said. 'My husband used to walk him up here three times a day, but he died at the end of November.'

And finally tonight, wallowing in self-pity because someone wasn't very nice to me (but not actually that horrid), dreading the prospect of a long drive tomorrow to a loving family, I was reminded by my mate, Jack Frost, that for many people the festive season is a difficult period - of facing violence,drunkenness and abuse, of risking and witnessing injury and worse.

So I promise that you will not hear any more moaning about Christmas from me. Stay safe everyone.

I don't know what the matter is with me this Christmas.  Despite my best efforts, all festive spirit seems to keep slipping away.  I'm beginning to think that my Sagittarius star sign has moved into the hitherto unknown constellation of Grumpypants, bringing with it gloom, doom and lots of sighing.

Take this morning.  We set the alarm extra early so that we could still have a couple of tea in bed and get up early enough to fit all the chores in.  We set off on Dog walk armed with our neighbours' Christmas cards and deliver these exclaiming cheerily about their beautifully decorated Christmas trees, baubles, lights etc.   The island is bathed in fog, but as we walk up the downs (isn't that a contradiction in terms?) the sun peeps out and the sky starts to turn a startling blue.  We met a jogger, who gasped 'Good morning' despite the fact that he could barely breathe.  Then we met a villager with his dog, and exchanged cheery banter.   So far, so top of the morning.  Christmas spirit intact.

Then we meet a family out walking their dog.  One of them is a neighbour that we see fairly frequently on our dog walks.   He knows us well - or rather he knows what our dog is capable of.  She is a Border Collie who we have had since she was 6.  She is very nervous with other dogs since being attacked, so is unpredictable (well, actually fairly predictable in that she always tries to get her retaliation in first).  People round here know this.  Particularly other border collie owners.  Because usually, when two border collies meet it is like a scene from the Gunfight at the OK Coral.  They crouch down, and eye each other from about 100 metres apart, then start to creep forward before flying at each other with a volley of abuse and snapping teeth.  I can only attribute this to a hereditary gene that compels them to compete to get to the top of the sheep pile, as Dog doesn't try this tactic with other types of dog.

Fortunately, this gives us plenty of time to grab her and put her on a lead.  Not so the neighbour.  He allows his dog to charge up to Dog, who objects, despite her lead.  The Neighbour has his elderly relatives over Christmas.  This explains why he was more miserable than usual.   His relative's dog, a fat spaniel, decides to join in the attack on Dog.  Neighbour says 'Oh dear!.   His mother (?) makes a grab for the spaniel.  My husband stalks through the middle of the crowd holding a swirling, whirling dervish of a dog determined to avenge the attack on her.  And it is the neighbour's prat of a father who wins the prize for today's evaporation of Christmas spirit. 

'My God!' he said to the back of my departing husband.  'Nice to be so sullen.  Welcome to the Isle of Wight - not'!

Now, I agree that the expression on my Man's face would have made holly wilt.  Years of suppressing rebukes to people whose dogs are not on leads, and attack those which are, plus the fact that he is trying to control an enraged/upset dog, do not lend themselves to stopping to make polite conversation with the dogs' owners.  But it has  been known to happen when the owners either apologize or make conciliatory philosophical small talk like 'Oh dear, that's dogs for you!'   What you don't expect is for the people responsible for the fracas to turn on you rather than do either of these things or slink off in defiance, shame or concern that you might report them and their dog to the police.

And because Mr. Misery then turned to look at me and was intending no doubt to pick on me next if I hadn't got in first with a firm 'Good morning' to our neighbour, my Christmas bubble burst again. 

Because an overwhelming urge to stick a holly wreath where the sun don't shine up a visltor to the Isle of Wight  is really, really, not a demonstration of goodwill and peace to all mankind.  And the sooner Sagittarius crosses into the constellation of 'Hide Under the Duvet and It Will Soon Be Over', the better as far as I am concerned.

Because: it's party time; because: it's an explosion of colour on a grey day; because: I'm over Christmas already; because: I want a holiday in a lovely beach resort; because: I love Joshua Held; Because: oh well, why not?

One of my last Christmas tasks is to write out the cards for the neighbours. You wouldn't believe how fraught this is with anxiety. Because my neighbours seem to have a collective inability to get my name right.

Granted, it is not that common and it does sound quite similar to another more common name, but really, it's not that hard. I don't usually bother to correct people, so I feel uncomfortable about the prospect of returning a card with my correct name as it sounds as if I have taken umbrage.

It is infinitely worse when my husband is with me, because he feels the need to be my Knight in Shining Armour and correct people.

"What's that you say, dear" replied elderly, deaf D , when my Man tried to correct her.

"IT'S ELLIE, NOT SMELLIE" he bellowed back, causing all the neighbours to twitch their net curtains in delight at the prospect of a domestic altercation in the street.

But I think I've found the answer. I'll invent a new name for myself. I've found just the thing too - something on the internet that tells you your alternative elf name.

So from now on, for the benefit of my neighbours, I will be known as HOLLY FLUFFER NUTTER.

"Peace and Goodwill to all cats until Christmas is over, fish face"

and I just found one. Happy Christmas to everyone I have met, and hope to meet, in Blogland.

How I loathe junk mail.   Despite the fact that we regularly sign up to the  Mailing Preference Service, we still manage to get the odd one junk letter or two.  The types of service that seem to regularly evade the MPS scheme are companies flogging credit cards or insurance, and charity begging letters.   And because the former invariably contains a pre-completed application form, disposing of them requires time and a little bit of identity-theft angst.  And ignoring the second type brings on guilt.    But I was reminded of a way to deal with this nuisance last night when I was reading Bill Bryson’s ‘Notes from a small island’.  He wrote:

 Also, while I think of it, can I ask you to tear up your junk mail, particularly when that mail invites you to take on more debt, and return it to the sender in the post-paid envelope?  It would make a far more effective gesture if there were thousands of us doing it.

 
So, having done that or simply destroyed the raffle tickets and letter with a dramatic flourish, one is left with a moral dilemma.  Should one keep and use the free address labels, sent to you entirely without obligation by the charity?  Answers, please, on a postcard to the charity - recipient to pay postage, of course.

I've got a day off work to put this Christmas thing to bed for once and for all.  However, In truth, since I started blogging there doesn't seem to be an appreciable difference between work and a day of leisure.  In fact, I'd rather be at work than have the morning I had shopping:

• Note to independent shopkeepers: If you must employ your teenage children in a bid to (1) make them earn their pocket money (2) teach them a work ethic (3) live in hope of starting a Sainsbury style shopping dynasty or (4) just want to annoy them, please ensure that they understand the concept of customer service.  A grunt and a sleep-walking expression just doesn't have the same effect as a cheery smile;
• Note to self: never, ever attempt to ask a teenager if they have any liquorice comforts, and expect anything other than a look of bewilderment.
• Note to Co-op staff: only wear flashing Christmas earrings, funny hats, those things that bobble on sticks, and tinsel if you have a matching cheery Christmas expression on your face:  If you must yell out "These are the last of the King Edwards!" and "the Chablais is going like wildfire - we need more boxes" then you must expect to get your boppers crushed in the ensuing frenzy and panic.
• Note to self: why didn't you ice the bloody Christmas cake weeks ago, instead of futilely tramping around every supermarket in town looking for cake decorations.  Serves you right if you have to present a nude Christmas cake to your parents.
• Note to baker's assistant: (yes, the woman-disparaging baker has a new sidekick).  Do not reply, when asked if you have any bread rolls left 'What you see is what you get - you should have ordered them weeks ago!".   You were only asking for the sarcastic, but creative, suggestion about your baguettes from the woman in the queue behind me
• Note to self: Do not attempt to reverse car into drive whilst thinking of all the ways you could get your own back on Mrs Charmless the Baker's Belligerent Bat.
• Note to butcher:  It is Not NOT safe to say to people queuing in your shop ' Goodness, every one has a blank look on their face today.  Cheer up, it's only Christmas' and then charge them £24 for some fillet steak and £40 for a turkey.  Blank expressions are a far, far better thing than murderous ones.
• Note to self: If consoling yourself in the carpark by munching your way through a bag of liquourice comforts, then remembering that when you were a child you and your friends used to pretend that the red ones were lipstick, do not attempt to see if it still works.  Remember, that old man in the car next to you does not immediately realise that you have just been reincarnated as a  Marilyn Monroe-type glamour puss.  He just thinks that you are a daft old bat, and blowing him a kiss  will simply ensure that he drives off at top speed leaving his baffled wife somewhere in the village.
• Final note to self:  If you have to go out shopping for 3 hours, why oh why did you forget the only important, necessary thing on the list - apart from Dog's christmas present and alcohol?

So I am off to the shops once more, and if that idiot in the Co-oop should yell out "That's the last of the toilet roll, folks!" expect trouble later.

The aim of the Secret Santa, according to Lyndj, is to get people reading blogs that they haven’t read before.  I hit the jackpot by 'winning' Subville's blog.  So I started reading the posts she wrote in May 2007, when she seems to have been reincarnated as a blogger.   An hour and two coffees later, I thought I’d better get a move on to June 2007.  Later still, I concluded that if I didn’t stop exploring all the hitherto unknown (to me) links she has included, stop playing the games and quizzes, stop reading the cartoons, stop spending ages trying to do this maddening puzzle, stop listening to all her music, and instead start writing, then this post wouldn’t appear until Christmas 2008.

So how did she come across to me?  Well, she's lovely.  And she likes or thinks many of the same things I do: she loves food ; Andy; she loves Starbucks’ latte; Andy; she’s another fan of Hotel Chocolat; Andy; she loves stripy things: Andy; she loves Bob Marley; Andy; she’s a huge fan of Post Secret; Andy; she loves people-watching and analysing; Andy; she claims she is socially inept and takes ages to trust people and become friends; Andy; she is taking a stand this year against sending Christmas cards; Andy; we even share the same first name initial and the same middle name; Elizabeth - not Andy.  And she has two skills that I can only aspire to with deep envy: she appears to have a grasp of computers that is completely astonishing to this 'techno-paranoid' (another phrase learnt thanks to her blog) and she has discovered the way to beat Jehovah’s Witnesses. 

If all that wasn’t enough for anyone to get to grips with, she has a young son – Mini – who sounds delightful, she is succeeding in maintaining a dignified relationship with her ex, his father; she has had to cope with the two greatest stressors in life: separation/divorce and her mother’s premature death, she has been studying for exams (passing with flying colours) and started a new job.  All this in a relatively short time scale, whilst coping with back pain, and maintaining a blog.  I am certain that there is a lot more, but I still have a lot more reading to do, and I am looking forward to it.

Oh, and she knows someone called Andy.  I think she rather likes him!

I lost my temper last night. Something I only do once in a blue moon fortunately, as without fail it trips a switch in my brain, and triggers a chemical reaction that results in a headache, tears and depression. The trigger was a phone call from my mother, something she only does once in a blue moon. I didn’t actually speak to her, as I was dishing up the dinner. Just as well, because just having the conversation relayed to me by my husband led to loss of temper, waking up at 2.30 am with a thumping headache, self-pity and a sleepless night. The reason for her call was to announce triumphantly that there would be a ‘full house’ on Boxing Day.

My husband and I only fall out over a couple of things: Christmas, or more accurately, my family and Christmas, is one of them. My mother has an unfailing ability to turn every visit home into a noisy, stressful, demanding, gruelling circus that leaves us both tired, irritable and resentful. I don’t blame my husband in the least for his reluctance to visit them over Christmas: he loves them a lot and vice versa. I even share this reluctance but I feel the pressure and guilt that comes with family and duty.

My mother retains a matriarchal view of her family and Christmas, despite the fact that we are grown-up and have families of our own. Unlike other people I know, my parents are unwilling to go to their children’s homes at Christmas: they expect us still to return each year. This causes stress and pressure as the respective in-laws of my brother and sister also have this view. To get round this, the parents have evolved a strategy of inviting all the in-laws as well. Fine, if they are your in-laws and you all live in the same area, and know each other. A chore if you merely happen to be a daughter and live 200 miles away and have to spend a precious holiday talking to strangers. There hasn’t been a 'family' occasion in the last ten years that hasn't included someone else’s family, and I have spent more time making polite conversation with the in-laws of my siblings than with my brother and sister themselves.

This year, to prevent my parents being on their own on Christmas day, despite invitations to visit us or my sister’s in-laws, we are visiting them. On Boxing Day, the idea was that the family – the immediate family of my parents, us, my brother, his children and my sister and her family - would have a family-do. How ridiculous to suppose this would actually be the case. Because my mother’s idea of a full house is just that. So on Boxing Day we can look forward to including my cousin and his family (whom I have met just twice in my life) joining us, and his in-laws (whom I have never met).

Why they would want to come is beyond me. There may well be more people coming – who knows. All I know is that the cooking that I have done based on the numbers of my immediate family is now insufficient; that my mother’s matriarchal aspirations are not unfortunately accompanied by matriarchal organisational skills and so we can look forward to spending Christmas Day helping to calm her down and organise her party; that like previous years, my brother and sister will slope off home after a couple of hours leaving us to entertain their children and other guests, and once again, I will have no opportunity to have a relaxed pleasant discussion with my brother and sister or my parents, and we will have the constant worry that our dog, who is nervous of strangers, will nip a child.

So I have now officially joined the band of people who find Christmas nothing but a costly, guilt-ridden, stressful, dutiful let-down. And I am going to find a nice, cosy, dark hole and spend all my time and effort on making it as insulated as possible. And even if I have to emerge briefly for a few hours on Boxing Day this year, you can be certain that I will be in it this time next year and will not emerge until Spring.

“You’re looking a bit tired,” said my baker..  “Yes, I am a bit.  I went Christmas Shopping yesterday and-“ I started to reply but the baker interrupted.   “Gawd, you women and Christmas shopping.  I don’t know why you make such a big deal about it.  We men just get on with it.  We know what we want, we go straight to it, buy it and that’s it” he snorted.  Tiredness, good manners and a restless queue behind me, mainly women all anxious to join the fray, made me suppress a retort.    However, as this is the third time a man has expressed this view to me in the last week, this is the response I would have given had self-restraint not triumphed.
 
OK, I fully, totally, concede that a man – the average man – can get his Christmas shopping done quicker than the majority of women.   However, this has nothing whatsoever to do with some men’s infallible belief in the superiority of their gender, nor is it evidence that women are indecisive, procrastinators whose urge to shop is such that we cannot resist spending hours in a shopping mall whatever the season or crowd.  It is simply that such men are not competing on equal terms.

The average man’s Christmas shopping goes like this:

Wife/partner: lingerie, jewellery, perfume or domestic appliance
Children: whatever the wife/partner has told you to get or whatever the children have been clamouring for 24/7 for the last three months
Secretary: a box of chocolates.
And if single:
Mother: a box of chocolates
Father: a bottle of something

The average woman’s Christmas shopping goes like this:

Husband/partner
Children’s main presents
Chldren’s stocking fillers
Mother and Father
Husband/partner’s mother and father
Grandparents and aunts and uncles
Husband/partner’s grandparents and aunts and uncles
Brother(s) and sister(s) and their partners
Husband/partner’s brother(s) and sister(s) and their partners
Nephews, nieces
Husband/partner’s nephews, nieces
Step-children
Children's step-siblings
Office colleagues
Husband/partner’s secretary
Children’s teacher
Children’s schoolfriends
Babysitter
Cleaner
Elderly neighbour who looks after spare key
Elderly neighbour(s) who buy the children a little something
A few chocolates/bottles in reserve in case of unexpected guests
Prizes for party games
Wrapping paper/sellotape/spare batteries
Christmas food
Christmas drink
Christmas decorations and tree
Christmas crackers
Extra Christmas crockery and cutlery and glasses
Replacement/extra bedding for guests

So is it surprising that the average man can get his shopping done in the time between leaving work and the time shops close on late night shopping night, whilst allowing time for a quick drink and bite to eat?  Because in addition to not having as long a shopping list, he will also not be hampered by a pushchair, a toddler, a couple of bored kids running around, a sulking teenager, nor an elderly relative or two.  Oh, I feel sorry for your wife!  Fortunately, my husband is not an average man and takes pride in the amount of time and effort he puts into finding nice presents for me.  So I at least will not end up with a grotty perfume with matching oil and bath salts set for the third year running……

A few days later  ….

Urggggh!  This loaf tastes a bit odd today!

What would it take to make me write a letter to our local newspaper?  The news that developers intend to build huge housing estates in our Area of Outstanding National Beauty?  The news that the Needles Battery is to house a nuclear warhead?  Or the decision to build a bridge linking the island to the mainland?  Well, I would certainly feel strongly enough about those issues to object and to protest.  But I can’t see myself writing a letter to the local newspaper.  

As far as I can tell, reading our local paper, the letters page exists solely for: people wishing to thank supporters and well-wishers, people seeking help in family history research, people wishing to pontificate on every public sector issue going in order to demonstrate their self-importance as self-appointed public watchdog; people hell-bent on demonstrating that they are a Nimby and the remainder relishing a wonderful, not-to-missed opportunity for pure moaning.    Very, very rarely does it serve as a vehicle for public discussion or protest against an issue that has major consequences for the larger community.

Over the last few weeks, our local Isle of Wight paper has focussed on what is known as the Undercliff Drive Scandal.  This was a proposal to repair and reinstate a historic section of highway from Freshwater to Ventnor that had collapsed following a landslip.  The scandal centres on the local authority failing to ensure that proper procurement procedures were followed, and as a consequence, an ‘illegal’ contract had been awarded to a particular consultant.  An investigation into the background of these events has led to the sacking or disciplining of several senior officers, and has cost £2 million in consultants’ and legal fees.  Add to this hundreds of thousands of pounds of taxpayers’ money spent illegally on a road scheme that will never be built, the prospect of the costs of a new battle/enquiry by residents of the alternative route to the Undercliff, to ensure their safety when traffic volumes increase and the severe effects on the health and finances of people who have been objecting to and fighting this scheme for years – it adds up to a pretty costly and disgusting state of affairs.

One or two letters were written to the local press about it, but they were vastly outnumbered by the more usual type of letter, one of which was a pure gem.  For what does one person feel inspired to write a letter of complaint about whilst the extent of the scandal is being reported?  About a group of volunteers who had put on an event to support a children’s charity, that’s what.  Admittedly, it sounded an odd event, because the group linked hundreds of bras together around a lake, covering the handrail by the steps, the trees and possibly even the wildlife with bras.  I am fully sympathetic to anyone posing the question 'Why?'.  And I can see it might have been embarrassing or off-putting feeding the ducks with huge numbers of bras surrounding you, yes.  But:  ‘Charity bra stunt was a danger’?  Hmmm.   

Really, I thought, if you can’t write about anything more useful – erm, take  up blogging.

You’re out for the day doing some shopping. On your own.  It’s lunchtime and you want a quick snack.  You go into a café and check that there are free tables and chairs, then count the number of people in the queue.  

So far so good.  Three free tables. Two people ahead of you.  You join the queue.  The person at the head of the queue takes her tray to one of the tables already occupied – her friend having reserved it for her.  Even better! Three tables left, one couple in the queue ahead of you.

The door opens and an elderly couple shuffle inside.  The woman has a stick.  They go to one of the three tables.  They arrange their belongings on two of the four chairs, the woman sits at a third and the old boy joins the queue.  Two tables left.  Just one couple ahead of me. They go to one of the remaining two tables.

You place your order, and pay.  Point of no return.  As you are waiting for your wooden spoon order confirmation, the door opens again.  Three women enter.  They rush over to the last remaining table.  One of them sits down, the others place their coats on the back of chairs and join the queue.

So what do you do?  Demand your money back?  Complain to the management? Go over to the table that the three women latecomers have bagged and sit down, claiming you were here first?  Or do you wimp out and squash uncomfortably on a table for four, occupied by a young couple?  Who look at you as if you were something on the bottom of their shoes.  And carry on talking about things you’d rather not hear about when you are eating soup.  

No prizes for guessing which I chose.  So assertiveness training is now zooming to the top of my ‘must do in 2008’ list.