Andrew's Christmas Letter

FYI, No Action required

Security Classification: Personal

Corbett Family 2009 – Executive summary

Total – continued to create value by focusing on core business strengths, strived for best practice processes, maximised leverage and synergy opportunities to meet 95% of key deliverables in budget and on time

Business units:
Liz:
Ø Key successes – wrote 24/7, 52 blogs, 259 twitters, passed TAFE, 4 book reviews, 1 Short story prize (1st out of 1700 entrants) 1 publisher reviewing novel draft

Ø 2010 challenges – write 24/8, get publisher contract

Jack

Ø Key successes – Parliamentary placement, snow, beach and Vietnam holidays, caught a fish, offered PhD scholarships at Melbourne Uni and ANU

Ø 2010 challenges – exchange Public service tailored work suits for Uni style tweed coat with sleeve patches. Get a pipe.

Ness

Ø Key successes – Work promotions, holidays (refer Jack) Junior soccer coach and Senior Premier player and trophy champ, Melb shopping trips.

Ø 2010 challenges – support uni bum husband (refer Jack)

Phoebe
Ø Key successes – traveled to Switzerland, finished uni, got married (refer Andrew M), emptied bedroom, back feeling a lot better

Ø 2010 challenges – start Social work masters, marriage adjustment and cross cultural move - outer Melb suburbs (Z2) to inner suburbs (Z1)

Andrew M
Ø Key successes – kept job in GFC, paid down credit card, Tassie hiking, got married (refer Phoebe)

Ø 2010 challenges – keep job in GFC, make room in wardrobe for Phoebe’s stuff, keep credit card down

Seth
Ø Key successes – finished first yr Uni, got a girlfriend - Monique (Note: punching well above his weight)

Ø 2010 challenges – Asia holiday, work out a way to spend more time with Monique

Naomi
Ø Key successes – joined a drama production group (2 great performances) joined a new church youth group, watched 2,250 hours of TV/DVD’s

Ø 2010 challenges – go to school each day

Andrew C
Ø Key successes – kept job in GFC, paid the bills, OS work travel, 9 weeks on jury duty, Prom hiking, some nice gigs and song writing, solo bike ride Adel-Melb – ‘1000 kays in 7 days’

Ø 2010 challenges – keep job in GFC, pay the bills

Other:
Ø Chooks – production down due aging workforce. 2010 will see some older redundancies and possible new grad hires

Ø Dog – did nothing, needs to stop chewing own feet and start cleaning up own pooh

Mission – maintain some semblance of order, amidst chaos

A Librarian's Christmas Tree

Have a good one!

Some Wedding Photos

We had a wonderful day!

You know you're stressed when ...

You know you're stressed when you make a Cinnamon Coffee Crumble cake - but forget to put the cinnamon in.

You know you've lost it when you ask your daughter to move her car from the driveway - then, while she's getting her keys, you start the engine and back into her car.

You know times are tumultuous when you drive your youngest daughter to the railway station - but forget to drop her off.

You know you're under pressure when you drive to the airport to pick up your mother - but miss the turning and end up in the carpark of Maccas Melton, thumbing desperately through the Melways.

You think maybe they should lock you up when you go to Eastland, shopping - then can't remember where you've parked the car.

You know your sunk because all these years you've been winging it  - and your daughter, who leaves tomorrow, has been keeping you afloat.

And you think perhaps marriage isn't such a good idea and you wonder how you'll ever manage without her.

But you know you have to but, God, you're going to miss her and you wonder when the ache in your heart will cease.

The Writing Life

Now supposing you won an international writing competition and your success was reported in a number of publications, including the Melbourne Age. Supposing, as a result you had a call from a publisher, asking about your novel. And supposing you sent six chapters and a synopsis to the publisher, and they really liked your work and wanted to see more.

Yes, wonderful, I'm sure you'll agree: a recipe for ecstasy.

But supposing your novel is currently pulled apart with track changes and comment boxes throughout. And you tell the publisher, look I've only re-written the first twenty-two chapters, but give me a couple of months  and I'll show you all I've got.

And they agree.

Then you might have to do a great deal of work to do.

But what if you lied?

Not a real lie because you really have re-written the first twenty-two chapters – barring all but one teeny- weeny scene in chapter twenty-one which you have been putting off ...

And supposing you kept putting it off, pulling the individual chapters into one document, making decisions, reading and re-reading, everything neat and tidy, until there is nothing left to do but re-write that one tiny scene in chapter twenty-one?

And now it is time to write it and you feel sick.

Yes, that's right: sick.

New stuff always makes you icky. There is the excitement, the challenge of re-working old words to make the same-but-a-better story. There is doubt and fear of failure, your long time companions. And all the while you are wondering, hoping, praying that you will be able to give life to this vague sense of meaning that has formed in your mind.

So, you start because, let's face it, you have to.

And at first, you feel like newly washed hair all mussy and twisted. Then slowly creation's conditioner seeps into the fibres. You put a comb to the knots and begin to tease out the words. Very gently, lest you change too much, you work back and forth, in and out of the document. Does this move the character forward? Is he meant to be failing the character tests in this chapter? Or passing them? Who is this character, anyway? Maybe I should delete him? Cut the scene completely? Write a different novel?

Oh no, you think. Where am I going?

Of course, at this point when you are in deep crisis, there is always family: a school meeting, an art exhibition, a sick kid, or a husband you have to talk to.

But … you can't you possibly stop writing at this stage.

Except, you have to.
And quite frankly, it's what you need, because while you are away from your computer, the problem resolves itself (normally in the middle of the night, or a desk shift at the library). And you write the idea down in your notebook, or send an email to yourself.

And enjoy a brief interlude of peace.
Meanwhile, a dear friend is reading her way through the other twenty-two chapters of your manuscript, patiently editing and making suggestions. And she reaches chapter twelve and sees a need for some structural changes.

Oh God, you think. This is only chapter twelve. You quickly extrapolate this particular change against all other possible changes you might have to make, and realise that one small scene in chapter twenty-one is the least of you worries.

You are sunk.

Horror churns. You lose sleep. You never really liked that friend anyway. Who does she think she is?

She is right, damn it! The changes must be made – and right away, not a moment to spare. If you leave them they will burn a hole in your manuscript.

So, you make the changes – and all the other alterations your dear friend suggests, and the story is better for it. So, you delete the hate mail you have so carefully drafted.

Then, with gut wrenching, you re-visit chapter twenty-one.

The scene is before you, a poorly patched garment. You decide to be brave. Make sweeping changes. You work in a fever, nerves like violin strings. The whole document altered, chapter by chapter, like dominoes, falling, falling, falling ...

But it's not a waste.

The scene is strong and resonant, full of symbols and hidden meaning.

My God, you're a genius. Why did you put this off for so long? All that talent, finally flowering. A Pulitzer Prize in the making.

And you think, perhaps you will sleep tonight – maybe all the way through to six o' clock in the morning.

Not the Mother of the Bride: Liz’s Outfit

Sometimes, I worry about humans. They don't understand priorities. We are heading towards an important familial occasion, a busy, once in a lifetime, precious season, when certain formalities must be observed – and buying the Mother of the Bride outfit is of utmost significance. Yet, Liz spends every waking minute hunched over her keyboard.

'Please,' I beg. 'Don't leave it to the last minute.'

'I have to submit by the end of November, Biskit.'

'But Liz, your daughter's getting married. You are the Mother of the Bride.'

I have visions, terrible visions, of Liz entering the wedding chapel in work clothes with a badge that says – didn't have time – hanging from her lanyard.

I suppose, when a respected Melbourne publishers calls and asks to see your novel, a certain amount of work is required. But in my opinion, she ought to be focussing on important things – like permanent rinses, waxing, eyebrow tinting, and clothing.

I don't wish to misrepresent Liz (after all, she feeds me). Occasionally she does interrupt her writing - to read a book, for example, to work at the library, or attend TAFE Novel classes. Sometimes, she even remembers the grocery shopping.

But for the most part … she is in another world.

How to motivate her? That was the question. How to tear her away from her desk, just for a minute? Priya and I decided guilt was the best strategy.

'Mum,' Priya said, 'I need a wedding outfit.'

'We'll go shopping next month.'

'But Mum, the wedding is in December – I need to start looking now!'

'Not now, Priya. I'm busy.'

'You don't care about me,' Priya wailed, stamping her foot, 'only your stupid book.'

Liz and Priya went shopping the next day. Liz wasn't in the mood for shopping (and didn't we know it). But I knew once she hit the shops, temptation would take over. She would start flicking through hangers, holding up items and trying things on … just quickly. I wasn't there, of course. It's one of the injustices of my canine disposition. Quite unfair, I'm sure you'll agree. Fluffy white dogs are bred for their beauty, not their brains. We have a natural affinity towards shopping.

But this is how the plan unfolded.

First, Liz tried on a red dress. It made her look round and chunky, like a pillar box. Next she chose something a little more subtle – a pewter dress. She looked more like a tankard than a goblet. A black skirt with a paper bag hem looked frumpy. Hot pink made her feel like a Rhododendron and, as for the purple dress, well, what can I say? A New Age nightmare!

Fortunately, at this point the shop assistant intervened. 'Can I help you?'

'My daughter's getting married,' Liz said. 'And I'm too fat for anything.'

The assistant eyed her appraisingly. She fetched a pencil skirt, a soft non-crease top, and a cropped satin jacket, from the difficult figures section, and teamed it with a pair of gorgeous black high heeled shoes. Liz disappeared into the cubicle. Priya heard huffing and puffing. The shop assistant answered a few urgent questions about belts and zippers. Then Liz tottered out looking magnificent.

'Wow!' Priya said.

'It doesn't get better than this,' Liz said, laughing.

'No,' Priya agreed. 'Are you going to buy it?'

'What do you think?'

Liz bought the lot: skirt, top, jacket and shoes from Dianna Ferrari. I'm not going to reveal the colours, nor divulge anything as skanky as prices. But Andrew has seen the Mastercard statement – and he is still recovering.

Not the Mother of the Bride: Wedding Dress Scoop

At three years of age, Phoebe said: ‘when I get married, I’m going to wear your wedding dress, mummy.

‘You'll look lovely,’ Liz said smiling.

I wasn’t there, of course. I wasn’t even a pup in the belly. But trust me, I am a dog-of-the bride, I know these things.

Now Phoebe is in her twenties and the day of her wedding approaches.

Florists are being been booked, cakes tasted, deposits on reception centres made, and a great deal of discussion about suits, dresses and fabrics is being bandied about. Phoebe’s whimsical childhood promise of wearing her mother’s wedding dress forgotten by all but Andrew. He returned from a recent business trip to Adelaide with the dress in its mouldering packaging.

‘What’s that?’ Phoebe asked as he laid the box at her feet.

‘Mum’s wedding dress,’ he said. ‘You said you wanted to wear it.’

Everyone laughed, except Phoebe. She knew he wasn’t joking.

As I lay on my medium sized fully washable pet pillow, I heard a story in her silence.

Every mother wants to her baby girl to wear her wedding dress, and every mother is determined her adult daughter will have a new dress. I mean, it’s all very well to wear a matching collar when you are a pup. But once you are a mature hound, ready to leave home and manage your own household, you need a collar with some gravitas.

Dogs understand this, even if fathers don’t.

‘Go on,’ Andrew said, ‘try it on.’

‘It won’t fit,’ Phoebe said.

‘Mum was pretty skinny when she got married.’

Everyone turned to look at Liz, trying to imagine her with Phoebe’s waistline.

‘I might still be able to fit into it,’ Liz smiled, nervously.

There was a polite silence.

‘Phoebe’s skinner than I was on my wedding day. But I think the dress was altered for Wendy’s wedding. I'll try it on after you, Phoebe.’

I sat up, my nose twitching. This was the opportunity I'd been waiting for. Like all good investigavtive journalists, I’d been working undercover, sniffing out potential stories, waiting for the time to swoop. The pricking of my paws, told me that moment was now upon me.

As Phoebe clumped down the hallway her arms swathed in yellowing fabric, I made a dash for the camera cupboard, thinking of headlines, such as Wedding Dress Scoop or Heirloom gown for Zone Three Wedding. I drew the camera out of its pouch and took up my position behind the couch. This would be bigger than Wills and Kate, the world in a frenzy. We’d have to hire security, keep the gown under lock and key.


The dress was loose on Phoebe. She turned like a model, the not- quite-white- ruffles swirling prettily. I had quite a lump in my throat as I crouched, low to the ground, the shutter clicking repeatedly.

Next it was Liz’s turn to try on the gown. I saw her smile slip.

But she walked bravely to the bedroom and came out a few minutes later grinning. 'Not bad,' she said, holding out her hands and curtseying.

But she didn’t twirl about as Phoebe had. She stayed front on, the creased skirts hanging stiffly.

At this point, I faced a terrible dilemma. It's one thing to talk about being an award winning journalist, quite another to show a middle-aged woman in her wedding dress to be pudgy and pretending, especially when the woman in question holds the key to the treats cupboard.

My lightly furred underbelly clenched painfully. I thought of the cupboard full of Oinkers, Beef Chews and Dentastix. Perhaps it was wrong to exploit another’s weakness? To climb on anothers back, and win acclaim from it? Then I thought of words like hard hitting and responsibility, duty to society. I remembered how it felt to Fail Alpha Dog Training. Scruples be damned!

I felt every vertebrate in my spine click. Dog like me have to take every opportunity. I slipped around the couch, before Liz had a chance to notice, and took this shot.