A Christmas letter to Sparkly

I have this friend called Sparkly Sparks who blogs on Yahoo 360. You might think it strange to have a friend called Sparkly but it isn’t, not really. I am Lizziejane to Sparkly We are both writers, that’s how we met, and we also share the enormous privilege of being Hanner Cymraes (that means half Welsh by the way, in case you were wondering). We made a deal, my friend Sparkly and me. I would tell her about Christmas in Australia if she told me about her Christmas in London. Well it is Christmas Eve and with a big hello to Sparkly, I thought I would set the scene.

What you need to understand about Christmas in Australia is that it is a summer thing: a season of peaches and cherries and strawberries, of salads and cool drinks, ice cream and air conditioning. The Festive Season starts way back in November when we turn our clocks back. The weather warms as daylight lengthens and the parties begin. It is not just a Christmas Season. It is also the end of the academic year. Exams are finished and students are celebrating. There are end of year concerts and BBQ’s. Carols by candle light is an outdoor, picnic-in-the-park event. By the last week in December the whole country is winding down for holidays at the beach.

But before we can go on holidays we have to do the Christmas thing. This year we have had two days of torrential rain in the lead up to Christmas. We have jumped puddles and dashed from door to door under dripping umbrellas. We have pulled moth balled cardigans out of the bottom drawer all with an extreme confidence that the rain is temporary. Today Christmas Eve the sky is full of soft scudding clouds tomorrow the sky will be blue from end to end. Lawns are mowed and gardens trimmed the roads are busy and the shops are packed as people make their last minute purchases.

Last night my Mum and I went to the Melbourne Welsh Church. We had a service of lessons and carols in English and Cymraeg. It is the first time we have done this and I think it will become a tradition. The Chapel was packed and as the Reverend Sion Goch Hughes lead us in worship, the hwyl was amazing. For that is the other thing about Christmas in Australia. It is a migrant thing, a time of absent friends, of crackling phone calls and distant family; a sometimes displaced sensation of seasons back to front, a time for drawing together and remembering...

I will write more later, but for now to my friend Sparkly and to all my friends on Blogger and Yahoo 360, Nadolig Llawen which is Merry Christmas, by the way, in the language of Heaven.

Alice is Leaving us Soon ...

I have a new water bowl. It’s is the lounge, which is considerate, considering how hot the weather has been. The only trouble is that my bowl has a tree in it. Liz’s has hung some shiny balls on the tree. I wanted to tell her that I don’t need my water bowl decorated but, for some reason, she was looking all misty eyed ... and I didn’t have the heart to mention it. Never mind. It is a nice green water bowl. I just have to stoop low and crawl over a mound of paper packages to enjoy a refreshing drink.

The weather is warm and summery. Most days the sky is blue from end to end. Fortunately we have wooden decking and can lie in the sun and keep an eye on things. Life is pretty busy at the moment. Phoebe is working almost full time at the library and going out every night doing all sorts of busy miss-twenty-year old things. Seth is working full time for an environmental contractor which I think is code word for watering trees. Liz is busy getting ready for her master class with the author Alison Goodman and she is very excited about it. Priya is still at school, until Friday. That’s when my work begin.

Andrew has started a new job with Exxon Mobil (some people have to keep working). I don’t know what he is doing. He seems to spend most of his time in the studio spying on me. Yes, that’s right spying. That’s the sort of people they employ in these big oil companies. Andrew’s boss is in America now, so he is making the most of the work from home policy. No one consulted me about it, and I am finding it rather restrictive. For some reason Andrew doesn’t want me barking at birds or welcoming the postman while he is in international phone meetings.

Alice is busy packing. She leaves on Friday but we are trying not to think about it. Tomorrow night Jack and Ness are coming for her farewell dinner. It will be a Christmas Dinner complete with pudding and Christmas Crackers and farewell gifts. I am going to miss, Alice, even though she has made a concerted effort to discipline me. She is going home to see her dog, Toffee, who I gather is better behaved than me. I have tried to show her things are different in Australia — more egalitarian less authoritarian. I have made symbolic forays into her room to rummage through her rubbish in order to illustrate this. When she complains I remind her that’s what international exchange is all about, respecting difference and growing in tolerance. She has learned a great deal, thanks to me.

Tonight she is having a farewell party with her school friends. Sunday she had two farewells, one at Church and one at AFS. Tomorrow is the family party and then the countdown begins. I’m not going to the airport. Someone has to stay and take care of things. I may not be as well behaved as Toffee but I will make sure Alice’s bin is empty for Grandma’s Christmas visit.

Britian's Got Talent

I love this video. It makes my spine tingle. Cymru am Byth!

Varuna Awards for Manuscript Development

This is my blog, right? My form of narcissistic self expression. It is the place where I blow my own horn, beat my own drum. And it is not really boasting because no one actually reads it.

What no one? Yes, no one, because they are too busy flying their own flag. In which case I can stand on my soap box and shout as loud as I want. Ok here goes.

I got through to the second stage of the Varuna Awards!

What was that? You didn’t hear me. Ok I’ll say it again.

I got through to the second stage of the Varuna Awards!

That’s better isn’t it. But I am so excited I find I must say it again.

I got through to the second stage of the Varuna Awards!

and again

I got through to the second stage of the Varuna Awards!

And again

I got through to the second stage of the Varuna Awards!

In fact I find I can’t stop

Varuna!

Varuna!

Varuna!

And I find I can’t stop smiling. I am a bubble floating and I feel so happy I could burst.

Eh? What’s that? You don’t know what Varuna is. Wash your mouth out! It is the centre of the universe. Yes, seriously. It is a very prestigious award. Here is the link. http://www.varuna.com.au/diary.html

Scroll down and you will see my name. It is fourth from the top under literary fiction. My first name starts with E and my surname starts with C. That’s it Elizabeth Corbett.

Di I tell you I got through to the second stage of the Varuna Awards?

My Horrible Midnight Experience

Frank McCourt survived a miserable Irish childhood to write his first book. Kate Holden rose above drug addiction and prostitution to realize hers. The American academic, Barbara Ehrenreich, did a parade of drudge jobs to find the material for her book, Nickel and Dime, whereas I live in Vermont. I had nothing to write about, nothing, until my Horrible Midnight Experience.

It was a dark and stormy night (I am writing for the popular market where cliché is an art form). Rain poured from the heavens as thunder made an eerie booming across the floorboards of the sky. Biskit trembled on his sleeping mat and looked up at me with beseeching brown eyes. How’s that for mood evocation? Does it sound like Bestseller material?

‘Oh alright,’ I said, smiling at Biskit. ‘You can sleep inside tonight.’

Andrew was away. It wouldn’t hurt for Biskit to stay in the living room. Seth was also away and he normally rescues Biskit in the middle of thunderstorms. He is that kind of boy and Biskit is that kind of dog. His demeanor seems to say, ‘please love me.’

I went to bed early that night. Alice stayed tapping on the computer for a little longer. Phoebe also opted for an early night. Woo hoo! Girls night in. We were all in bed, reading, by ten thirty. I am not sure how to novelize that bit. It is one of the problems of trying to sell my life story. But it is important for plot development because the thunderstorm had passed and Biskit could easily have gone to his kennel. A promise is a promise, however (even to small dogs), so I let him stay inside.

Anyone who has had baby will know what it is like to be woken by a cry in the middle of the night. If you are fortunate and already have had three or four hours sleep you can rise and do what you have to do with reasonable equanimity. If you are woken within half an hour of falling asleep you stagger drunkenly from your bed with violent, time-to-end-it-all feelings. But when your dog wakes you in the middle of the night (the dog who by your grace is sleeping in the living room), and he is barking at possums, and even when you yell at him he keeps on barking, it is like finger nails on a blackboard, quite indescribable really.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘That’s it!’ I sprung out of bed (this is the action part of the story), my bare feet making a rival thunder storm. (Biskit did look very sweet, by the way, a little white smudge in a darkened room. But this is sleep we are talking about. Sleep is a sacred thing.)
‘Come on Biskit, out.’ I held the laundry door open, grimly.

He looked at me nonplussed. He normally gets a treat when I put him in his kennel.

‘Out!' I pointed, forbidingly. 'No treats tonight. You have been very naughty.’ I wouldn’t have minded if he was frightened. My heart would have melted. But possum watching was a recurrent problem and it did not tug at my heart strings.

Biskit wasn’t having any of it. He took one look at my empty hands and decided to make a dash for freedom. I was in no mood for games. I cut him off. He turned and ran back into the house. I yanked the door open and charged after him. Crunch went my bare toe against the cement step. Not my big toe, my pinkie toe. My tiny little left foot toe and it was bleeding. ‘You rotten dog,’ I roared. ‘Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!’ Something in my demeanor must have changed, because Biskit responded almost immediately.

This is around midnight, remember, and I had been rudely awoken from a very satisfying sleep. I stumbled, half-seeing, towards our well stocked medicine cabinet (a jumbled up basket in the linen cupboard) only to find the Band-aids were missing. This is where persistence comes in, the ability to push one’s self beyond the pain barrier. It is the stuff blockbusters are made of. Except the heroes are not generally middle-aged, mussy-haired women wearing pink pyjamas (the reviewers will say I challenged genre expectations). I rifled around in the basket and found one creased Bandaid with its wrapping barely intact. I was not even thinking about Detol or cotton wool. That could wait until morning. I just had to cover the toe up so it wouldn’t dirty the sheets (always keep your priorities).

Surprisingly I was not in much pain. At least, I didn’t think I was. But, as I sat on the lid of the toilet and tried to make my fingers open the Band-aid wrapping, I realized I felt rather giddy. In fact, very giddy, the room seemed to be spinning and my head was having a sort of a darkened-dots-experience. I was on the verge of fainting. How did I know that, I hear you ask breathlessly? I don’t know. It is one of life’s mysteries. It gives my story depth and timeless appeal. I knew because I knew. So I put my head between my knees.

You will be pleased to know the head between the knees thing works. If, like me, you have never fainted, you may have thought this vital first aid technique sounded a little far fetched, old-wives-taleish or over simplistic. But it works. As I sat, head down, breathing deeply (lucky I closed the toilet lid) my head began to clear. I stayed there for a long time, just waiting. Only when my head was once more on a horizontal plane and my hands had stopped shaking, did I sit up and put the Bandaid on my toe. I didn’t make an assessment of the damage. That could wait until morning. My primary objective was to keep the sheets clean.

I woke early the next morning which is a tragedy of mammoth proportions. Sleep is a many-splendored thing and Biskit’s naughtiness was reaching into my dreams. My toe was throbbing. I moaned and rolled over. Andrew wasn’t even there to comfort me. If I got up early, no one would be there to show any sympathy. Those lazy girls didn’t have sore toes, they would be sleeping soundly. Thankfully, at that point I remembered the Gloria Jean’s coffee. (I hope you are impressed with all my brand placements. I expect to make millions out of them them).

After my Gloria Jean’s coffee I felt great, a new woman really. I thought I had better do the first aid thing. A quick wash under the tap in the middle of the might, a dab with a dirty hand towel and a Band-Aid probably wasn’t adequate, I realized, in the clear light of morning. I unwrapped my pinkie toe and bent down to have a closer look. It was very red, sort of raw looking and my toe nail ... my toenail ... well, it was missing. I poked it with my finger. No hard shell, just a jelly-like feeling. I had ripped my toe nail clean off. No wonder I almost fainted.

As you can imagine, I have been dining out on this experience all week. I have made two trips to the Doctors to have my toe dressed. I have been limping around with my pinkie toe bandaged. I have been unable to wear shoes, unable to go running. If people failed to notice my suffering I brought the subject round to it with tactful questions like: ‘I suppose you have noticed I am limping.’

My friend Sue, who lost two toenails, said my toe nail would not grow back as I expected, just peeking out from under the skin and slowly inching its way along the exposed nail bed. She said the nail bed would simply harden, over time. I am watching with interest. It conjures up the possibility of a sequel to this story with recommended footwear for exposed nail bed sufferers, my own fashion label, perhaps, even a fist aid manual or an an opening in the romance genre: “As Andrew ran his hands over her firm calves and massaged her foot she arched back as the pleasure and pain shot through her, a bead of sweat forming on her brow as his gentle caress ...”

No! I am not going to write anymore. You will have to buy the book. I wrote this blog to pique your interest and because my son Seth said if I blogged about my toe, he would definitely read it. Isn’t that what every writer wants: a guaranteed reader. I could not disappoint.

A few Family Events and Photo Links

We have had a number of family events these past months.

• Father's Day
• Phoebe's 20th Birthday
• INSIDEOUT's new Album Release
• Andrew's Birthday

I have not put photos of each event on this blog but you can find them if you scroll down the right hand side of my blog to the link that says MyFlickr Photo Albums or follow this link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/97676510@N00/sets/

Spring

Spring

Winter’s recoil
Light cotton cardigans replace winter woollies
Clothes from the bottom drawer moth balled and musty

Doors open
Windows breathe deep
First flush of roses blooming
New season’s stone fruits shyly appear

Barbeque time
Heavycover removed
Wheeled into summer position
Scraped and cleaned of last year’s grease

October

An hour less sleep

Chips, dips and chilled glasses of chardonnay

Countdown to Christmas and languid summer evenings

Fashion week

Racing carnival atmosphere
Men in suits and women’s flummery

Caulfield and Flemington, office sweeps and Melbourne Cup

Supermarket
Plum pudding ingredients
Walnuts and raisins, currants and glace cherries
Calendars, gift wrapped and posted, tinsel greetings