Skeleton_1

Fiddlesticks.

It would appear that to all intents and purposes, things are a bit on the crazy side around here. I feel fine but I’ve got no voice and I keep finding friends and relatives sitting on my cushion-strewn sofa, drinking herbal tea and urging me to “be strong” in the face of what must strike other people as emotional crises on ooh, just about every front…

This strikes me as utterly nuts. Is it possible that a person can be so wrapped up in their own little world that they can’t see what is apparently blatantly clear to next door neighbours, maiden aunts and strangers on the bus? And if it is, does it really matter? Is it possible that I look at the world through rose-tinted spectacles while the rest of the universe is dissecting my every mood, every emotion, every little sentence  and deciding that it is a wonder I make it through the day, let alone get up, get dressed (most days!) and find the energy to re-invent my little online world and recover from another bashed up heart the week before Christmas?

I am you see a Meg Ryan, “You’ve  Got Mail”  kinda girl.   When trouble comes a-knocking, I go to the mattresses. And come out all guns blazing. And usually pointing in the wrong direction…

So while the rest of the world is wrapping presents, I am rethinking my  blog colour scheme.  Mostly so I  don’t have to think about  the fact that  I haven’t bought a single Christmas gift  worth talking  about yet. So I don’t have to dwell on the Scott thing. Or the fact that Mark won’t be here when our babba is too demented to go to sleep on Christmas Eve.

Dwell not on things you cannot change.

So I am re-arranging my sidebars, considering joining Weight Watchers, teaching myself how to burn cd’s, chasing mice and trying not to daydream. Pretending that Christmas isn’t five days away but at the same time sleeping safe in the knowledge that by Christmas Eve I will have every gift bought, wrapped and delivered. I’ll be snuggly in my bestest flannel dressing gown waiting to say hello to Santa when he falls down the chimney, watching rubbish tv and feeling bizarely content.

There is after all, a heart-shaped wreath on the door, home-made paper chains adorning the tree,  and the scent  of  cinnamon in the air.  There are tins full of home-made shortbread and mince pies,  cards strung chirpily across the fireplace and a happy little boy fast asleep with a head full of dreams about Father Christmas.

Tomorrow I will go with Mark to play Mr and Mrs Christmas in Toys R Us. By midnight there will be a house full of toys wrapped in brown paper and tied with big fat bows. It isn’t the natural order of things around here, but I am simply muddling my way through a whole new world and some days, some nights, some seasons are harder  than others…

It’s been a funny old year. But I’m doing my best. Facing my fears. Stepping over minor calamities and refusing to worry about tomorrow. Being just about as strong as it is possible for me to be in circumstances I wouldn’t wish upon a big dog.

It’s been a funny old year.