Christmas spirit um spirits

My dear Girls,

At the risk of sounding like your very selves allow me to here communicate the frenzy of my pre Christmas life. Unlike yours mine will be more verbose and in much more detail as you no doubt already see.

I’d known for some time of my charming work colleague Megan’s so called kitchen warming, in plan for only eighteen months now, it was scheduled for this Saturday evening so it was with some surprise that I received a call from Cynthia early last week asking ‘everything ok for Friday’. Eventually a vague memory of the promise to baby sit for her work Christmas party returned and of course I was. Clever girl, she reminded me twice more as the week proceeded till eventually when seeing her name attached to the call on that clever mobile do I remembered this responsibility.

No problem really for an old fart. One fifteen year old boy and a thirteen year old girl with her best friend staying over, who calls that baby sitting. Don’t know why I’m here really. This question becomes even more relevant as I settle to Sam’s entreaties to watch a video with him. This proved to be the most bloodthirsty and sexually violent piece of crap that I, who have lived almost fifty years more than Sam, had ever seen. I had to keep asking myself was I there perhaps to adjudicate what possible ‘Lord of the Flies’ style nonsense he may have gotten up to with his sister , her friend and a carving knife. I did reflect that at his age I could still count the movies I’d been to on one hand and three of them were Oklahoma. There was no TV. At the same time I recognised that this stuff was what I was looking for in those days and look at the wholesome creature I turned out. Ahem.

I retired some time after ten to lie atop Cynthia’s cat piss smelling bed fully clothed to prepare for my seven AM start at Bunnings but did not sleep well. Capable of sleeping through thirteen year old teenage girls deep and troubling silences I could not sustain repose through the hysterical screaming phases of their natural rhythm. Throughout all, Sam’s videos continued with incessant screaming, gunfire and explosions and were that not enough the elder cat, troubled by a very recently arrived kitten for whom all outdoor access had been prohibited constantly walked over me to check once more whether the window had been opened.

Its enough to say that I didn’t sleep much and when I went for a leek at four AM discovered a mysterious mound of bedding outside Audrey’s room that I had to climb carefully, least there were a body, for access to the bathroom. Every light in the house was on including that in Sams bedroom though there was no sign of Sam. Returning to bed I noticed the mouse like sounds of a drunk attempting to putt key in door and opened it for Cynthia, her girl friend and a bloke, not a bad one really, hope for Cynthia’s sake it was hers. With the certainty that only insomniacs and other psychiatrically prescribed folk possess I bade them goodbye, to the receding sound of Cynthia’s “what’s this” and “are you still up” questions.

Quite out of sorts I arrived at work though soon gained my second wind, ran a quite successful DIY ‘Build a retaining wall’ class, resisted the temptation to teach folk the most successful worm farming techniques and was home at four for washes, naps, food and alcohol stimulus. Back with my third wind at Megan’s around six I drank too much, laughed too loud, ate too much and expressed too many opinions on too many subjects. Work colleagues met for the first time the Bob that you who attend family days know only too well. I succumbed to their entreaties to try their home brew Sambuca, and Irish cream whisky, I graciously accepted a glass from the Heineken Keg and drank lustily of my own favoured sparkles. I Enjoyed their home made Genuine Black Forrest Tort, Chocolate Cream Pavlova and congratulated their expertise with Lemon Cheese cake and lashings of cream. These at least are my memories which were I a teacher giving a report would have included the phrase ‘displays little self consciousness’.

Kerry and Authur gave me a lift home on their way to Campbelltown, hardly out of their way, and Kerry especially scoffed at my claim that I would retrieve my car on my morning walk. Retrieve though I did as prescribed finding the streets of Alexandria and Mascot unlike those of Stanmore and StPeters to feature endless industrial blocks where I thanked Nigel for the Sunday quiet.

Last night, or that night in this context, Alice and I went together to the Opera House Concert theatre for a tribute to Jackie Orzascky organised by his ex partner and friends which we both enjoyed immensely not the least for the opportunity to pick up with old friends. It was an early night Sydney Sunday style where the quiet of the streets put me in mind of my own youth with no Sunday trading. Perhaps the economic downturn is having its way with the entertainment industry and there is good reason why poor Justin Hemmes is always denying press rumours of trouble.

Now it’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m well rested though none the less stressed. I delivered some important papers on behalf of Alice and her extended family to Clarence Street in the city earlier this afternoon and had a disorienting experience with modern technology. An infrequent user of parking meters there seems to be such variety that I must always spend five to ten studying and trying to interpret their souls meaning. This one rejected all monies with a decisive message to “collect your money’ along with a subliminal message about max and min. After serious concentration I was able to distinguish a 0.01 after min and interpreting this to mean one cent (correct me if I’m wrong) wondered just how long this meter had been here.

Abandoning this endeavour to the fates I proceeded to the lobby of 35 Clarence where I found six lifts (I was headed for the forth floor) but no lift call buttons. Chic I’m sure so I waited and boarded the next lift wherein I found an equal lack of directional buttons and waited for what was next. Doors closed and after no perception of movement reopened to the lobby to where defeated I retreated. This must have been one of those special card only, voice/iris recognition, members only thingies I resolved and joined two girls awaiting other lifts. In here too were no directional buttons and I was forced to ask of these youngsters ‘what the hell’. Resisting their natural instinct to scream and run they bravely informed me that outside and around the corner was a key pad where if I punched in my floor it would inform me of what lift from A to F I should board. This worked well and soon having delivered my package to floor four I needed only to depart. Joining a lift with a professional courier this amateur asked ‘do all lifts go to ground’ and he explained that I must once more convey my wish by means of the key pad. Observing the key pad across the lift isle (for want of a better word, please don’t hesitate to advise) with only zero to nine as is the nature of key pads I had the foresight and good sense to ask which is ground before his lift departed and he replied ,though rather unsurely ‘er zero’ and was right.

Now as I drove home and passed the Observer hotel on Sussex Street I noticed a sign saying ‘let us organise your function for you’ and I was tempted to go in and have my hard drive updated to cope with all this um modernity I suppose.

I guess that’s (apply your own adjective here) enough so I’ll leave you with this entreaty to come home soon and turn on the light.

Love Nanny um no aunty xoxxxo

You've no idea how this tempted me on Sunday morning but you'll be pleased to hear I was strong

Which has helped me resist the temptation to deface this image with words like'as do greed and theft, so what!