Blog 17 - From a Villa In Grey Lynn - Christmas, Feliz Navidad!

"The approach of Christmas brings harassment and dread to many excellent people. They have to buy a cartload of presents, and they never know what to buy to satisfy various tastes. They put in three weeks of hard and anxious work, and when Christmas morning comes, they are so dissatisfied with the result and so disappointed that they just want to sit down and cry. Then they give thanks that Christmas comes but once a year."

—Mark Twain

This is my final blog of the year, although of course it mightn’t be, as I say things and then change my mind. My mother disapproves of this, as even though she has known me since I was born, she still takes everything I say seriously. Just the other day, she was trying to politely suggest that the erratic nature of my blogs means that I’ll never be taken seriously, which is exactly what I’ve been trying to tell her all my life—not to take me seriously. But that being said, she does support my endeavours in part because the son she never had and the brother we never had, who is called Philip, likes my blogs. She approves of anything he likes, so I want to say thank you to Philip for liking my blogs, but especially for caring so much for Mum after Dad died.

I want to thank my Olympic pool family, the only group I have ever really belonged to besides my family. We are like a corps de ballet with a thrice-weekly spot and a few stars who still stagger onto athletic podiums. I know the feeling of exhilaration they feel, as I have it when I finish a blog!

I would like to thank Anne with an "e," who appears mainly in the changing rooms, where she stands with her towel and blue eyeliner on her lower lids only, and reassures me that my blogs are my gifts and I should do with them as I want, like I should with my other gifts... whistling, and, scarily, I can’t think of any others.

I look back on 2024, which, as always, has been a year of wonders, as I wonder at the extraordinary antics of my family. I have six children and eight grandchildren, with only one of my children being in a relationship, although two have been married. It seems like a snapshot of the world itself—a riddle impossible to make sense of—or, as John Lennon said, "The more real I get, the more unreal the world gets."

Two of my children live with me. One of them parks his big black ute in the driveway, his saw bench on the porch, calls me "mon chéri," and takes the rubbish out occasionally.

The other one works day and night and takes his job more seriously than the rubbish.

We had a little textual altercation the other morning after rubbish night. It went like this:

Me: Thanks for bringing the bins in!  

Son: Really don’t know why you have to send me that and put me in a bad mood for the rest of my day. I’m running a presentation for the whole business today at the Xmas function, so I rushed off to work with my mind elsewhere.  

Me: Because you guys have to help me more. Good luck with the presentation.  

Son: Does it make a difference if they are brought in now or after work? Thanks for getting my day off to a terrible start. Mission accomplished.  

Me: Yes, it does matter. The public put their rubbish in the bins all day when they are left out. I just wanted to point it out, not start a war. Just say sorry; I’ll try and remember next time.  

Son: I’m not sorry; I could have done it when I got home, but you went out of your way to be sarcastic and make me feel terrible for no reason. Pretty sure I paid for the cleaners as well yesterday and last week.  

Then I came across a little card he gave me once: “Thank you for your kindness and unbreakable spirit, which I hope I got from you,” and I realise how much my children teach me because I see the whole truth in them.

Then there is my editor, Charley, who still hasn’t changed my home page announcing new blogs weekly or managed to remove the need to pick squares with traffic lights so my sister Damaris can leave a comment. Charley says you would think I was running the country, the way I find excuses for not writing, when really I am just sitting at Freida’s with Nancy drinking whiskey.

My little daughter Frankie and her daughter Olive are coming home to live in Auckland next week. While one side of me can’t help but see this as a warning from the Met Office, the other side knows how enriched my life will be by the arrival of this prima donna (by virtue of her birth) stamping across the stage of my heart.

Then thank you to my one chick singing from a nest in Christchurch, so warm a cuckoo would want it. She is always wanting me to visit as her partner likes to roam alone through glaciers and dig holes in the ice to sleep in. It touches me deeply that she likes me to visit her.

And to Clem for having two little girls who made the best day pop up from nowhere when Mum and I took them to climb over the fallen pōhutukawa Christmas trees at the back of the Rose Gardens. We ate sandwiches, chocolate, and coffee while Mum sat in the big lap of a tree. After that, we went to see the roses and spray the water fountain while Mum sat on a bench. When we came back, all these Chinese people were swarming around her. It was like we had left an old baby by itself that was delighting everyone.

I hope a day like this pops up for all of you over the strange time we have ahead of us, when the whole world changed because Jesus was born... or did it?