the dingo and the calf

It was a dark, still night. The stars which normally lit the country sky were obscured by cloud. The farmhouse stood waiting for dawn, its walls creaking now and then as if in time with the breathing of its occupants. The woman snored softly. The man dreamt of ride-on mowers. The cat twitched its tail as it slept, stretched out across the foot of the bed.

A panicked bellow broke the silence, abruptly waking the sleeping couple. A moment later, the frantic bellowing came again- the sound of an animal in distress, in pain. The woman's heart raced; the man leapt up and ran to the door. The woman searched for a torch while the man stood and yelled - a wordless, primal scream; a defiant warning to any marauding creature.

Together the man and woman strode off into the paddocks, with just the torch beam to guide them. They checked the livestock in the house paddock, they counted cattle on the creek flat. All animals were accounted for, and appeared to be unharmed. The woman giggled to herself - partly with relief, and partly because she was as naked as the day she was born. There had been no time to dress.

The couple trudged back to the farmhouse, and discussed the night's events as they made their way back to bed.

"Must have been one of Connor's cattle", the woman mused.

"Yeah", the man agreed.

The house fell silent, and the woman and man slept until sunup.

The next day, the man went off to work. The woman went into town for provisions.

As the woman arrived home, she noticed one of the calves, Amy, was lying down. The woman stopped the car, and anxiously approached the pretty white calf. It was clear the calf had been the victim of a dingo attack the previous night.

One flank had the distinct puncture marks of upper and lower teeth. The other back leg was ravaged, knawed, chewed, but the calf's hide had not been pierced. The woman knew both leg injuries were at risk of serious infection. She telephoned the local vet, and arranged to collect some antibiotics, which she injected. She sprayed the wounds with antiseptic. She fervently hoped that little Amy would pull through.

The woman and man moved the two motherless calves, Amy and Boo, into a safer paddock. Over the next few days, Amy slowly began to move about again. And so far, the dingo has not returned.



Epilogue:
The woman's daughter came to visit her last weekend. The woman's daughter took photos of the calf, Amy, and her injuries. The woman told the daughter she could relate the story of Amy and the dingo, providing she didn't mention the woman's nakedness.

The daughter is notoriously unreliable.

May I suggest?

This weekend I have been catching up on a spot of blogreading. It's difficult to keep up with all the incredible writing out there!

I went to read the latest post by Mimi, who home-schools her four children, and is a clever and compassionate woman. Recently, Mimi spent some time at a youth correctional facility, and has written about her experience. Her post is an inspirational read, and the poem she received from one of the inmates is so very bitter-sweet. Please consider dropping by, and saying hello while you're there if you feel so inclined.

Have a wonderful day everyone!

let's hear it for the boys!

As most of you know, I adore my daughter. She is a wonderful, sweet and creative little person. She can be serious and earnest and anxious to please; she can be bossy and emotional - just like her mother was at the same age. Because Laura's personality is quite similar to mine, I get her. I understand her. I can explain to Fatty why she is wailing and being irrational; I can ease her worries because I know what concerns her even before she tells me.

When Benjamin came along, I was excited but a little wary, too. Boys are not a known commodity. I have not grown up as a boy, I don't have personal experience to help me comprehend the world of males. I had no doubt I would love this fat little boy baby, but would I be able to relate to him? Would we ever bond as well Laura and I would?

I guess I can answer that, after 4 1/2 years spent with my funny fiercely-loving fascinating son. Yes, and absolutely yes.

I should explain that while females and males are not exactly different species (or are they?), I am a very girly female. I am interested in people, relationships. I like flowers and satin and lace. I enjoy languages and writing. I nurture, I nag. I love children and babies. I cry easily. (Of course, there is also my penchant for karate. But who says 'feminine' women can't kick some butt occasionally?!)

And yet, as part of establishing a relationship with my son, I am developing new interests and skills, and swags of knowledge I never expected to possess.

We read 'Amazing Facts about Australian Frogs and Reptiles'. (Did you know that the knob-tailed gecko does 'push-ups' when it's scared? Or that legless lizards may rear up, snake-like, and will even strike at their enemies, despite the fact that they have no fangs or venom?)

We look for cars with 2 exhaust pipes.

We know that a Blackbird is the fastest aircraft.

We discuss the peregrine falcon, which can swoop at speeds up to 390km/hr.

We have met the ladybirds, worms, grubs, grasshoppers, katydids, stick insects and a whole multitude of other insects which inhabit our backyard. I never even noticed them before. How-do-you-do, neighbourhood bugs?

Having a daughter is brilliant, and I love spending time with my Louey-girl. We talk about her friends, she asks me why some people stop being married, I listen to her read for me, she draws elaborate, detailed pictures and gives them to her admiring mother. I sense a kindred spirit in Laura, and I hope we will have this connection throughout our lives.

With Benjamin, I am aware that the way he and I think, and the way we approach situations, and our natural interests are all quite different. And yet because of that difference, I find myself being drawn into a whole new realm of ideas. I find that once I actually sit and peruse 'Australian Dinosaurs' (which, pre-children, I would not have done unless you paid me), I find it intriguing. Who would have thought?

Once when Ben was a toddler and obsessed with earth-moving equipment, I was driving somewhere with just my friend Belly. As we passed a construction site, I began to exclaim 'Look! A digger!', but had to quickly change to 'Look what a beautiful day it is!'. That was when I knew I had changed - all because of my son and his entirely new perspective.

The gender divide will always exist, but I like to think we can build bridges and cross over to visit each other. I have to thank Ben for being patient and welcoming, and for allowing me to wander across whenever I please.

If you'll excuse me now, there's a whale stamp Ben and I need to soak off an envelope.

facing facts

I truly believe that appearance is largely irrelevant, but with a caveat: only when referring to everyone else. I can wax lyrical about inner beauty, but somehow I'm still watching the lines etch themselves on my face with growing alarm.

I told a couple of my closest friends of my silly dissatisfaction. I was aware of how stupid it sounded - to worry over wrinkles when people are starving, ill, at war. Yet, knowing how trivial my concerns were did not allay them. The knowledge of my own vanity simply made me guilty. And still horrified by the advancing signs of ageing.

I think part of the problem is - I have never been conventionally beautiful. As a girl I was awkward, freckled, angular. I grew into a more graceful, freckled, pretty-enough young woman. After realising that there certainly were some men who were drawn to pale, freckly and slightly pear-shaped women, I gained confidence in my appearance, and in myself. I knew I was no stunner, but what I lacked in classic good looks, I could make up for by being funny, or cheeky, or smart, or interesting. I made peace with my flaws, and decided I was satisfactory, just the way I was.

Then came gravity, holding hands with time, accompanied by child-bearing. Just when I was content with face and body, everything started to change. ('Wait! Come back, body! I was kinda getting used to you! Hey, face! Don't go changing like that. You were not so bad... I didn't mind you, just as you were.') So I realise now that I'll have to watch everything change, change and change some more (yes, strange that I didn't predict this, right? I must have had some delusion about never ageing!)- and still somehow retain confidence in my appearance. Or perhaps that is not the answer at all. Perhaps the answer lies in re-defining what makes me an attractive person. Perhaps I need to gaze again upon the pink-cheeked face of my grandmother, now 90 years of age, and one of the most beautiful women I know.

One friend told me that when she looked at me, she saw the face of someone who smiled often and frowned rarely. That pleased me. Because if you must have grooves, it's good to have happy grooves, right?!

Another friend simply sent me the card you can see above. I like the sentiment. I want to grow old with those I love. However, I may be compelled to ditch any friends who show signs of ageing too gracefully - too smooth-facedly, too pert breastedly, too taut-thighedly. That can not be tolerated.

When I say I want to grow old with my loved ones, I expect them to keep up.

glorious rain!

At last, some decent rain! Our poor, parched garden is grinning from ear to ear. The flowers look brighter and perkier, and everything is glistening with raindrops.

There is a weird woman hopping about my backyard, taking photos of odd things like puddles.

Even the clothesline looks happy!


The skies may be gloomy grey, the dog may smell musty-wet, the trees may be dripping fat wet blobs down the backs of our necks, but hallelujah we love this rain!

ode to Tootie

My friend Tootie said to me today, Are you ever going to post again?

'Yes', I retorted. 'Maybe next January'. The fact is - sometimes my life is just not blogworthy.

'What can I blog about?', I persisted. ' Got any ideas?'

'You can write about how wonderful I am', she joked.

'That would take way too long to write', I answered.

I've been thinking, though, that maybe, if I wrote only about her very best attributes, I could finish this before sunup tomorrow:

*TOOTIE*

Tootie loves like there is no tomorrow.

Tootie eats bullies for dinner and spits their bones out.

Tootie's brain works so fast, I can't keep up with it.

Tootie can make me laugh against my will.

Tootie is a dark-eyed beauty whose ingratitude for her good looks pains me greatly.

Tootie is my friend, and that's not always the easiest thing to be.



Tootie, you better believe you're wonderful.

I've glimpsed my future......

Last night I ended up curled awkwardly and grumpily on the living room couch. I have this eerie feeling it won't be my last couch sleep.

Before people start sending me numbers for marriage counsellors, I wish to be clear that I still love Fatty. I may be glaring at his back today; I may be somewhat clipped in my responses. I may even be considering performing some radical palatal and tonsillar surgery on him, in the kitchen, without anaesthetic (I suppose that's a little harsh, isn't it? I'll give him an anaesthetic lozenge). Yet, despite these seemingly ominous signs, I consider myself happily married. At least during daytime hours.

I knew Fatty was a snorer when I married him. I figured I would eventually get used to it. And I have, for the most part. Having kids has made me so tired, I fall into slumber most nights within seconds. If I happen to wake to a rumbling sound beside me, I just jiggle the bed until the rumble stops, and I am asleep again in seconds.

I have failed to factor in the worsening of this problem, though. I stupidly didn't consider the fact we would both get older, greyer, saggier, and, in Fatty's case, snorier. When I vowed to love Fatty for better or for worse, I never imagined that vow referred to the nocturnal truck-gear-grinding noises that would one day emanate from my husband.

I never imagined that I would lie awake, as I did in the dawn hours this morning, wishing I had a giant MUTE button for dear Fatty. Now wouldn't that be helpful?

I could even lend him the mute button to use on me, for when I whine too much. Which is hardly ever.

when the truth hurts

I don't often have to break bad news to patients. It happens much less often than you'd think. I give people advice that I know is unwelcome, I warn them of future lifestyle-related problems. I diagnose urine infections, chest infections, depression, panic attacks, high blood pressure and myriad rashes. But when it comes to giving the really bad news, when it comes to telling people that they have an imminently life-threatening disease, I am usually not involved. The patient most often has been referred to a specialist, or has ended up having tests done in hospital. I am rarely present for the 'moment of truth'.

I have needed to deliver awful news on occasion, though. Once, a patient 'Veronica' came to me rather than returning to the hospital clinic, for her head scan results. It was too much hassle to go all that way, she told me, and besides she needed to be on time to collect the kids from school. Her husband 'Phil' sat with her as I phoned the hospital. I spoke with the hospital doctor, as Veronica and Phil sat watching me.

"There are several presumed tumours - they're large, and they're deep. Looks like *GBM (*glioblastoma multiforme - a particularly nasty brain tumour). Don't think they'll be operable", reported the hospital registrar.

I thanked the doctor on the end of the phone. I carefully replaced the receiver. I slowly explained the findings to Veronica and her husband. I'll never forget the first words out of Veronica's mouth - she was in shock - 'How funny! I've just been to a charity lunch to raise funds for cancer patients!"

That was almost ten years ago, and Veronica has long since passed away. I was reminded of her, though, when I had to give some bad news to 'Rita' last week. I was reminded that there is no good way to give bad news. I also realised that I will always sag under the burden of carrying such a dire message. I wished I would not be forever recalled as the bearer of the terrible news. I wished most of all that there was no bad news at all to deliver.

As much as I try not to 'take my work home', some thoughts just follow me on the drive anyway, trailing insidiously behind me like some noxious vapour. When I reach home, and especially when I lie in bed at night, the gases swirl and mist around me, and I can't sleep for the fog.

What will happen to Rita? I don't know. It's out of my hands now.

bits and pieces

Yesterday I mistook my friend's son for a cat (c'mon, children and cats are very similar). I was talking to this friend, whom I am only just getting to know, via IM and webcam. She mentioned something about wanting me to see 'Jake', whom I vaguely knew to be her son. However, before I'd fully registered her statement, my attention was caught by the sight of something round, furry, and wriggling, which was fuzzily visible in her lap.

"Is that a cat?" I typed, and sent. As I pressed send, the webcam picture became clearer. The 'cat' lifted it's head up from its mother's lap, and morphed into the tousled head of Jake. Whoops! How do you recover from that? How do you take your ginormous foot out of your mouth to explain how you thought your friend's beloved child was a feline critter? I did my best.

With Laura at school, I have been spending more one-on-one time with Benjamin. Today we got out magazines and scissors and glue for him to do some collage (no, I'm not always such an interactive mother, but every now and then I do try!). I noticed, not for the first time, Ben's endearing habit of opening and closing his jaws in time with the scissor blades. Cut, cut, cut (chomp, chomp, chomp). It's awfully cute. Apparently Fatty used to stick his tongue out when cutting, as a kid. Sounds dangerous to me. The important thing here is - Ben's weird habit can be blamed on Fatty. Perfect.

Although it is Laura who is spreading her wings and going to school, Ben is also attempting to do more and more for himself. It's a relatively new thing, because for the past 4 years, Ben has spent his waking hours trying to get Fatty and I to run around madly fetching him things and dressing him and making him snacks. This kid was born to be served... but he really lucked out with us for parents!

As part of his newfound independence, Benjamin has been buckling himself into his carseat. Whoo-hoo! Yay Ben! Occasionally, though, he can't quite get the second 'prong' in. Today he was struggling, and the car was stinking hot, so I reached over to help. I was stopped in my tracks by his protest, "Mummy! Why do you have to be so helpful?"

Why indeed. Silly me.

That's pretty much it. Life goes on as usual, for which I am very thankful.

Happy Tuesday!

schoolgirl

My gangly gap-toothed girl begins Grade 1 tomorrow, and I thought I would be fine. I smirked when the teacher told us there would be tissues for the parents the first morning. Yet tonight, I find myself tearful and pensive.

Were I to search the world over, I don't think I could find a daughter I'd love more. My Laura-Lou, my oldest, tugs at my heartstrings in a particular way, because she is such a good and true little person. Not perfect, not insufferably and consciously good, just a wonderful, decent kid. A sweetheart. A treasure.

So tomorrow, out into the wide world goes my first-born. She will make new friends, and become more independent. As time passes, she will slowly grow away from her parents, and identify more with her peers. In years to come, there will be times when she hates me, or at least hates the way I talk/walk/act/dress. There may be times when she makes me yell with frustration or weep with hurt.

I hope there will always be this same bond of love between us, to carry us through. I hope Laura will overlook my funny habits, my annoying ways. I hope Laura will love me with all her heart, just as I love her.

Laura, my little Louey, you are brave, bright and beautiful. You're going to be the best little schoolgirl around!

absence makes the heart .... go to the movies!

I know maybe I should be pining more, but truthfully I am relishing the opportunity to be lazy, and to hang about with my beloved. Yes, it is true, Fatty and I are sans children. My mother has whisked them away. Part of me misses their sweet rosy cheeks, but another part of me can hardly believe our luck!

It started as a simple plea for childcare today for Laura (school doesn't resume here until this coming Monday, and both Fatty and I work Thursdays). Before I knew it, Mum had concocted an evil plan to spirit both my offspring away to the farm - leaving the night before and staying over the next night too. The oddest thing was, our home-loving Ben actually wanted to stay two nights, and has not changed his mind!!

Last night, Fatty was on call, so we didn't go out, but ordered child-unfriendly food (lots of sashimi) and ate it with chilled wine on the back deck. We then ate chocolate and watched a DVD.... without having to attend to kids at all. It was so relaxing to just flop onto couches and watch a movie together.

So, what to do tonight, what to do? Will we eat out, will we see a movie? I think doing both sounds good!

*PS Mum, if you're reading this - wanna do this again next week? he he*

smiling through tears

Today I met 'Marcia'. Marcia used to come to see another doctor in the surgery where I work, until the other doctor recently moved away. Marcia wanted this and that checked; she wanted to ask a few questions. Everything checked out fine, and it seemed the consultation was drawing to a close. Then I noticed a few words in the history section of her chart

'son killed in MVA'

(for those not familiar with the acronym, 'MVA' is short for motor vehicle accident)

If there is one thing, above all else, that makes my heart sink in my chest, it is hearing of the death of a child. Losing a daughter or son is every parent's greatest fear. From the moment our first baby is born, we begin to understand the possibility of staggering loss; we know that with the loss of a child we would unravel, unravel, disintegrate. We know we would somehow have to put ourselves back together again, and we would always bear the scars. Some of you would probably say from personal experience that there is no greater pain. I cannot imagine a more enduring pain.

So when I saw these few words on the screen in front of me, I asked Marcia about her son. I asked how she was coping.

Marcia's eyes began to glisten, but no tears spilled out. She began to talk about her boy, the boy she lost six years ago. She told me that many days she remembered him fondly, and smiled at funny memories. Many days she worked and ate and slept without effort. But there were other days where her grief slapped her in the face and left her breathless, as if to remind her that she would never be free of it. Marcia's voice shook a little as she explained this all to me.

After a moment, Marcia sat up straighter, and smiled.

"I'm really lucky, though. My family and friends have been incredible".

"Oh yes?" I inquired.

"Yes. They still talk about Bobby, and they remember important dates. Like the anniversary of his death, they will send me an e-mail, a text message, or just pop their head into my office and say 'Crappy day, Marsh?' It helps to know they remember. He's not forgotten."

Marcia paused for a minute, thoughtfully. "I mean, obviously I'll never forget Bobby. But it helps to know that my friends and family won't either."

After Marcia left, I couldn't stop thinking about her story. I was impressed by her resilience, and her positive attitude. I couldn't begin to comprehend what she had suffered. But even more than this, I was amazed to think of the kindness and goodness of these people around Marcia - these wonderful souls who take care to remember her boy's birthday, the anniversary of his death, and the memories of him that his mother holds as dear to her as any living love. Six years after Bobby's death, they take the trouble to honour a boy who died, because they know how his mother loved him so.

I know this story is sad, but I think it's happy, too. Because although terrible things happen, there are some mighty fine people in this world. And that can make all the difference.

Remembrance

Fatty and I have just finished watching a movie about the battles fought by Australian troops against the Japanese, along the Kokoda trail, in Papua New Guinea. I am still reeling. I simply did not know the details of this almighty fight.

And oh, what a fight the Aussies fought - outnumbered 10 to 1, in heat and mud, with leeches and biting insects; battling dysentery and tropical ulcers as fearsome as the enemy. I am humbled by the fortitude of these Australian men. Not only did they mount a courageous defence, they forced the Japanese to retreat, and saved our country from almost certain Japanese invasion from the north.

I am reminded of the incredible debt my generation owes to these earlier generations - to the soldiers who were killed or wounded (in body or in mind), to their wives and sweethearts who lost partners, to the soldiers' mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers.

I hope that somehow they know that I am thinking of them tonight; that all they gave was not in vain; that they are remembered and revered.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.

right here, right now

Those children of ours are playing doctor and patient. I would like to point out that it was my mother-in-law who gave our ratbags their medical kit. I myself would prefer they be given chef kits, so they can take over the cooking for me, or perhaps they could be gifted with mops or small vacuum cleaners. After all, I'm aiming to be like Redneck Mommy and have my kids earn their bed for the night!



Fatty is resolutely eating cereal and reading up on the Australian Open tennis. He is a pretty big sports fan and I suspect would read about ping pong if he found such an article.



I'm drinking coffee and reading the fashion section (because Fatty was hogging the news section when I started, and now I have got totally caught up in whether I should be wearing the mini dress or the sack dress this season. I'm thinking either would look fabulous on me. *small cough*)

That's our morning. Hello! from all of us!

news from the house of Jelly

I can't believe I haven't blogged for so long. Because there has been so much going on here. Groundbreaking stories every hour. Where shall I start?

Well, firstly -

1) the dog has been emitting such pungent aromas (all the while snoring innocently on her dog pillow) that I have been forced to issue denials to Fatty as we watch Seinfeld (e.g. "Just in case you were wondering ...that was NOT me!")

2) sweet Laura has lost a front tooth! Alert all media, release balloons, sound trumpets! She looks adorably gappy. The tooth fairy must have thought so, too, because she left behind five dollars. Kids today are so spoilt.

3) Benjamin the Invincible has picked up a new phrase (?from a movie) and has been trying it out-

"Get me some milk on the double!"

It's a damn fine try at parent-manipulation, but unfortunately instead of rushing to do Ben's bidding, I find myself laughing uncontrollably. I mean, as if!

(* skip this next section if squeamish*)

4) At work, I have been inundated with a plague of festy mucky ear canal infections, pus-filled sores, speckly heat rashes and scabbed-up eczema.

Didn't I just tell you my days were fascinating?

So, how fascinating has your day been so far?

being true to my name

There's nothing quite like a good old laugh at yourself. Or maybe it's only me who feels this way. After all, I have found myself, over the years, to be an endless source of pea-brained errors and social gaffes.

At any rate, I amuse myself regularly, but here's one of my better blunders.

Last week, I saw one of my regular patients, who confessed to me she'd become ill after taking some diet pills. She told me the name of the pills, which made me raise my eyebrows a little. "Really? Were they really called F** B******?", I asked 'Katrina'. She nodded, and I furrowed my brow. "Hmmm. Maybe they're aimed more at men?" I mused. I checked my medications database, but found nothing by the same name. I wondered if perhaps it was a new tablet.

Later, I carefully documented the name of the pills in my notes. Katrina was well again, and I thought nothing of it until yesterday.

Our practice nurse 'Meg', sidled into my room, smirking. She'd been looking up some blood test results for Katrina, and had seen my notes.

"I think you may have misheard Katrina Fenton", she sniggered.

"What?", I asked, nose buried in paperwork.

"Those diet pills she took..." (more smirking)

"Yes?"

"I think they were called 'Fat Blaster'."

(small pause)

"As opposed to 'Fat Bastard'."

At this point we both lost our composure and began snort-laughing and clutching our bellies. I had tears. Meg had tears. I had to take several deep breaths before ushering in the next patient, and even then I think I may have smiled inappropriately. I am still grinning like a lunatic and chuckling to myself as I write this now.

**********************************************************************************

Can't you just see a burly beer-bellied bloke ambling up to the pharmacist?

- 'Ray, I'm going to need another bottle of those Fat Bastards.'

It's 2007!

I've visited all your blogs, and it sounds like you've all had at least some fun over Christmas! Now it's time to welcome in the New Year. I reckon it has great potential! Happy New Year to all!!

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As you may know, I've been away the past week. I don't think I mentioned that the week was a week of travel - to Fatty's parents, to the family of his brother Newsreader (who has the head of a newsreader) where we were joined by Writer and his gorgeous wife Ten (she was nicknamed 10 at school - as in, 10 out of 10 - because she is so outlandishly pretty), then off to the land owned by another brother Goof (um, he's a goof) where we camped overnight. Then we retraced our steps, and arrived home two days ago. It was certainly busy, and there were no naps or reading of novels involved, but damn if I don't feel happy! And my eyelid has stopped twitching. How do you like that?!

I'd love to moan about having to visit Fatty's awful relatives, but in fact they are great people, and I must confess it was a lot of fun. Sure, I'd like to whack Writer over the head with the tea-towel at times (whilst explaining to him that meals don't make themselves, serve themselves and clear themselves away....geez!), but apart from that minor irritation it was a fabulous week.

Here are some photos....

All are photos from Goof's block of land, apart from the go-carting shot (Laura and me, at Newsreader's countryside home)

Happy 2007!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We Wish You a Merry Christmas!

While I'm away this coming week, please take care everyone, and have a wonderful Christmas!

somebody's a homebody

It seems I'm turning into my husband. Or, to clarify, I'm becoming more like him with each passing day.

I'm not growing chest hairs, and I'm not becoming unnaturally interested in the local weather website. I'm not forgetting upcoming social commitments, yet recalling the exact score of my football team's last winning game. I'm certainly not wearing shiny Wallace and Grommit boxer shorts to bed. And yet.... I think I've become a homebody.

Fatty likes to be at home. He likes to potter, to do jobs, to watch sport on TV, to read the paper. I, on the other hand, am somewhat more social (or at least I used to be). I look forward to seeing family and friends. If a weekend goes past without some kind of social event, I feel mildly disappointed.

But perhaps as I'm getting older, I'm changing. Because these endless rounds of Christmas gatherings are messing with my head. All these celebratory occasions should delight me. Instead I'm stressed about where I have to be when, and what salad/cake/gift I have to take to whom. My left upper eyelid keeps twitching. I'm afraid strange men will notice and think I'm winking at them.

I'd like nothing more than just to stay at home each day and night, right through until New Year's Day. If anyone wanted to visit, that would be fine. I have another fruit cake and some good coffee. But if I could just stay in the one place long enough, my mind might stop whirling and small body parts would stop flicking.

I can see now why they call it the Silly Season. I can also see the wisdom of my husband's ways.

Yuletide Yabbering

Writing Christmas cards is a tricky business. I had forgotten this, until just now when I sat down to write a few.

The thing is, there are some friends I only see every few years. The Christmas card from last year may be the last time we communicated. So although we may share a history, and have maintained a bond, I'm not completely relaxed about what I write in my message to them.

It's an odd thing, but somehow I find myself wildly rambling in greeting cards. It's as if, let loose on the blank page, my imagination knows no bounds, and I begin to write random thoughts. I end up sounding kind of frenetic, slightly manic. I'd be disturbed if I received one of my own cards (of course, that would also mean I had resorted to sending myself Christmas cards, which even I must admit doesn't seem healthy)

And then there are my clumsy attempts at humour. I can't understand, really, because as a child I was nothing if not earnest, and as an adult I don't get any requests to do stand-up routines. In fact, I have this amazing ability to take a joke that was stomach-clasping-funny when told to me, and render it inert, lifeless, completely un-funny. It's my special skill. Yet, whenever I write in cards I begin to crack jokes. Generally bad ones. Occasionally they are in poor taste. I joke about locking our respective children in a cupboard so we can drink champagne on the back deck, and then I wonder if the card recipient will think I am half-serious. Will they read my words and frown, their index finger poised to dial Childrens Services? I dribble on and on with the dumb wisecracks, and then after perusing the card, I wince and sigh. Why? Why can't I write a nice, sweet, heartfelt Christmas greeting? Is that so hard?

I can just see my old pals reading with furrowed brow, and passing the card to their spouses with concern. "She wasn't like that at school. I don't know what's wrong with her. Maybe she's not well?"

I'm well, really I am. I'm bouncing with wellness, and I just get a little silly. It's all that Christmas cheer.

Tomorrow night I'll try again with fresh cards. No jokes, no dumb remarks. Just 'hello, Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year to all!'. Safe, sensible. Sedately sending Seasons Greetings.

I hope you have more success writing all your cards. Best of luck!