I would like to wish my readers a very happy festive season.

This may be difficult for some who are alone or stuck in or on the wrong side of the English Channel or perhaps have to endure relatives you secretly despise.

As far as is possible may you enjoy love, laughter, friendships and the courage to go forth into 2010 with brave hearts and optimism and remember chocolate is bad for your dog no matter how much he drools in anticipation all over your shoes.

This should be the time for peace and love. If you can't stand any of the above, sleep for twenty-four hours and it will all be over once more.

Elizabeth Thompson (Cynthia)

This is a poem written by a lady from North East Victoria.
I love it. It sums up the time of year rather well.

The Twelve Days of Christmas.


On the first day of Christmas my true love said to me
‘I’ve bought a big fresh turkey and a proper Christmas tree’

On the second day of Christmas much laughter could be hear
As we tucked in to our turkey, a most delicious bird.

On the third day of Christmas came the people from next door
The turkey tasted just as good as it had the day before.

On the fourth day of Christmas some wine and cheese we had.
We were bright and happy…the turkey, a bit sad.

On the fifth day of Christmas outside was hot as hell,
But we were cool as cucumbers and the turkey was as well.

On the sixth day of Christmas the festive spirit died.
The children fought and bickered as we ate the turkey fried.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love he did wince
When I sat him at the table and offered turkey mince.

On the eighth day of Christmas our doggie ran for shelter
When he saw the turkey pancakes and the glass of Alka-Seltzer.

On the ninth day of Christmas, by the ‘arvo’ dad was blotto
‘Cos he knew the bird was back again, this time in risotto.

On the tenth day of Christmas we were drinking homemade brew
As if that wasn’t bad enough, we all ate turkey stew.

On the eleventh day of Christmas the Christmas tree was moulting
And with chilli, soy and oyster sauce the turkey was revolting.

On the twelfth day of Christmas we all had smiles upon our lips!
The guests had gone, the turkey too and we sat down to fish and chips.

By Di Saines.

Letter From The Other Side from Cynthia

Dear Del,

The sounds of the ‘Sugar Plum Fairy’ tinkling about, ‘Silent Night’ and painful to the ear renditions of ‘I’m Dreaming Of A White Christmas’ issuing out of the shops, plus the aroma of summer mangoes, peaches, tomatoes and strawberries filling the air means it must be Christmas. If we include cherries glistening in their boxes, flanked by pineapples, avocado pears and melons, we know that salad days are here.

I am trying to get myself into the festive mood and finding it difficult.

Teddy and I put our Christmas tree up in front of the fireplace and decorated it with some care this year. I even purchased new decorations. The old ones were perhaps more tired of trying to appear festive than I am. However I do appreciate the pine scent the tree wafts through the house.

It wasn’t of course without its problems because it was bigger than it looked in the field and took quite a while for us to get into the house without knocking down a light fitting or two. Then the job of balancing and anchoring it well enough in our brass bucket to prevent it falling on some small person who may happen to tug at a glistening bell or bauble was quite a effort..

After we were satisfied with the tree, Teddy realized his wallet was missing and we spent about sixteen frustrating hours trying to find where he had dropped it. I didn’t panic as you may think I might because after all these years I’m usually certain he will have lost whatever it is we are searching for in some obscure place around the house or car. This was in the car, wedged between the seat and the door strut. ‘But I looked in the car!’ He wailed. Men do that when you find things they can’t.

As I sat in the shopping mall last week eating a rather unremarkable lunch, I was able to peer over the railing of the mezzanine floor and watch the store Santa Clause where he was trapped behind a fence with two elves and a long line of waiting mothers with children.

Even from where I watched I could see the perspiration glistening on his forehead as the hot lights shone down on his red cap. He waited for each child to come to him with enormous equanimity. Some of the children who had a great deal to say for themselves before they reached him were suddenly overcome with shyness as they approached the man in red who might, or might not, grant their most heartfelt wishes.

Others became loud and cheeky when mothers who thought their child had taken up enough of Santa’s time tried to intervene and drag them away.

One little sweetly faced thing jumped on Santa’s toes in her frustration and when told not to do it again by her embarrassed mother defiantly repeated her act, only I think she jumped even harder the second time.

I would have been happy to empty my unappetising meal over her head if I thought my aim was good enough, but refrained.

Those poor Santa’s not only have to look ridiculous and feel unbearably hot but probably have the hardest of clients anyone has to deal with.

The amount of food piled high precariously wobbling about in overfilled shopping trolleys makes one wonder if everyone is feeding the five thousand or if the population is expecting a famine next year.

When we were younger, the shops closed for a few days and we used to stock up quite a lot, but they hardly close at all now, so I really don’t see the need to buy so much.

I miss a great deal of the old traditional Christmas’s we had as children. It was simpler, not as commercial, but still seemed to hold such a lot of magic for us.

I think I see some of that magic reflected in our grandchildren’s faces when they go out in the evenings to see the houses decorated with lights and storybook characters. Perhaps one day our little ones will look back on their Christmas’s with nostalgia and say as we do ‘it’s not like in our day’.

My Christmas’s as a child always revolved around the church services, bell ringing and having to listen to the same sermon at least twice. But I loved the music and the thrill of waiting for the sixpences in the puddings and perhaps a sip of sherry from my father’s glass as he napped on the couch after his heavy dinner.

One of my favourite memories is the year there was panic in the Vicarage when the organist felt a peddle of the harmonium organ give way as she pumped away energetically during the choir’s last practice before the big day.

This was a disaster. Without the organ the Christmas services would be lacking the music everyone enjoyed so much and in truth needed to help them carry the tunes. It was a large country parish and the people sang with great gusto, some with very little variation in their notes. The wheezy instrument definitely helped to smooth over the affect.

My Dad spent hours the day before Christmas day with it in pieces all over the church floor and my mother popping in every now and then to unhelpfully wring her hands, remind him of the time and tell him he would have to have it fixed soon.

Eventually after having removed a couple of dead and desiccated mice (obviously the story of church mice is true) and a dustpan full of assorted moths and spiders, he was left with three screws he couldn’t find places for but the strap was replaced with some webbing and all was well with the bellows for the midnight and Christmas Day services to go ahead as usual.

This year Teddy and I will enjoy Christmas Eve with our younger son and his wife who live along the coast a few miles from us. I was delegated the task of making the pudding and sauces and custards for that get-together. ( Gluten free of course.)

On Christmas Day we shall have another meal with our older son his wife and children, Monica our daughter and her husband and family, salads and ice-cream cake for me to prepare for that day. (Vegetarian and egg free of course for these members of the family.)

Naturally Aunt Alice and Uncle Rodger will be there. They have already enjoyed numerous Christmas lunches put on for the old folk by community groups. He has been busy in the workshop of the retirement village making a little wheelbarrow for me to put a pot plant into and is from all accounts bursting with pleasure with his efforts. I have already purchased a small gardenia to put in it.

I expect he will bring his own cutlery as usual and Aunt Alice will advise anyone within close proximity of the stove how everything should be done.

You will observe from the above, cooking for the family presents its problems.

In other words Christmas will be much the same as last year.

Boxing Day we shall be exhausted and hope to deflate in our chairs to watch the Boxing Day test match…after we have celebrated our son-in-law’s birthday.

Then we do it all again for New Year.

Teddy and I wish you, and all you contact through your programme and in other ways, a time of peace and love and a renewal of our faith in one another.

Kindest wishes and regards, your ‘flower child friend’

Cynthia.

Letter From The Other Side from Cynthia.

Dear Del,

We have begun the downhill run to Christmas. I can feel the pace of social obligations speeding up and the need to find my Christmas card list from last year etc.

This year’s cards from the Lost Dogs Home are lovely as are the ones we buy from the Moon Bear rescue association so I have no excuse but to make myself sit down and begin to write in them.

Birds seem to have featured in our activities this week.

Last week we enjoyed a pre-Christmas lunch with a woman we have known ever since our swinging years. She swung far harder and in more psychedelic ways than we ever did and lived the life of a free spirit for years painting and posing as an artist’s model for many of them. For the last decade she has been one of the artists who exhibit at Monica’s gallery.

She is a little eccentric, but then most of us appear that way to others don’t we? Especially as we age and our quirky habits which were once subdued come more to the fore as we cast off some of our inhibitions.

Joy painted traditional landscapes or portraits for a long time. As a younger woman, she was a tall, willowy, titian haired beauty who just needed to touch the arm of a potential buyer with the tips of her elegant fingers and his wallet or cheque book would magically appear from his pocket.

Please don’t misunderstand me, she is an excellent painter and has won many art show competitions and awards and has been successful enough with her work to have been a professional artist all her life.

Sadly as taste in art changed, the money began to slow down for traditional art and she turned to painting abstract and modern work.

Now, in her semi retirement she has returned to painting nature studies, life drawings-nudes-, and wildlife as well as teaching.

While travelling to a town not far away from her home, she noticed a dead magpie beside the road. It had not been long since the poor creature had been hit by a passing car so she stopped to pick it up and placed it carefully on a towel on the back seat of her car. It would help her with a watercolour bird study she was intending to paint.

When she arrived home she took the feathered carcass inside, wrapped it carefully in plastic film wrap and placed it on a plate in her fridge to keep fresh for the following day when she could take it out to begin painting.

Her family were due to arrive for a meal that evening so she washed her hands and began preparing a fresh salad. Her daughter and the children walked in while she was doing this and after the greetings etc asked what they were going to have with the salad.

“Oh I have a cold chicken in fridge’; she answered absentmindedly forgetting to warn them about the wrapped magpie. ‘Would you take it out please?’

The resulting screams of ‘Yuck…Yuck!!!’ which came from her family gave her such a start.

As she told us about her memory slip, she was quite mortified the grand-children not only thought she was of the belief the magpie was a chicken but that she had also forgotten she had the tiny carcass of a fairy wren on a saucer in there as well.

She laughed and her eyes shone with all their old mischief as she told us her tale and wondered what they would have thought if they had come the day earlier and met and seen the young, muscular man who had been posing languorously on her living room couch for her small life drawing class.

Sometimes, those closest to us don’t really know us very well do they Del?

The other bird I shall call the one who flew over the handlebars.

As you know Teddy enjoys riding his bike and when not accompanied by someone as fit as he is will venture far and wide around the countryside on the various bike trails.

Last week he left home with the intention of travelling about thirty kilometres to the peninsular. The trail follows the old rail route and at this stage still has a gravel surface.

He returned home earlier than I had expected with blood down his legs and one arm and small bits of skin hanging off, a broken watch, dented helmet and bruised ribs.

He said that when he was about two thirds of the way along, as he passed one of the golf courses, he rested back on the seat and relaxed wondering if he could ride without his hands on the handlebars.

As he flew over the handlebars after his front wheel hit a big stone, he knew he couldn’t.

Then while he lay dazed and wondering how badly he was hurt he found he was under attack. A pair of wattle birds were concerned Teddy was a threat to their chick which was foraging about in the long grass not far from him. The adults bombarded him for some time while he gradually regained his senses and feet and prepared to set off once more on the bicycle. A golfer who must have witnessed his downfall and not bothered to come and help but was leaning against the wire strand fence said unsympathetically.

‘You’ve made a mess of yourself haven’t you mate? Should take up golf, it’s safer.’

Teddy has been a little quiet these last few days because his ribs are too painful to indulge in any heavy breathing, laughing, choking on food etc.

Many times over the years I have asked him not to ride to places I can’t get the car into to rescue him, but I doubt he will change the habits of a lifetime. It may be too much of a shock for me if he did.

I must return to writing my Christmas cards also, there is another bird I have to think about which will be waiting at the butcher’s shop for me.

Your reluctantly festive ‘flower child’ friend’

Cynthia.