In my haze of preoccupation with numerous persuits, I have once again been knocked over stunned to suddenly discover how rapidly the disastrous thing known as Christmas is approaching.
It's not that I dislike Christmas......itself anyway, it's that I hate how people become every year when the bloody thing rolls around like a faithful steam engine (Not a Connex steam engine- Only Melburnians will get that).
Their crazed expressions as they jolt into you in the crazy cyclone that has suddenly engulfed all shopping places of all shapes and forms.
Yesterday while following the Mother like a little lamb into the slaughter into Chaddstone, I was like a small animal reeling in fright against the wall as the torrent of normal every day people mutated into bargain-thirsty shoppers stampeded towards me.
"I'm scared" I whispered, quivering with fear to the Mother I hoped would step forward to shield me. But instead, she grabbed me to pull me into that deep end of human limbs, clutching shopping bags like hunters of the wild cradling their kill for their young ones back in the nest.
I found a small ledge to plaster myself against in David Jones once we had fought our way through the ferocious snarling beasts that are the Christmas shoppers.
Panting I was shocked to see the Mother casually surveying the glass wears, calmly holding wine glasses up to the light, pondering their competency to hold the precious liquid.
Peering around to check the coast was clear, I gingerly stepped out of my safe haven to assist the Mother in the glass search. Eventually finding something to amuse and distract me from my turbulent ordeal- I held up a large glass in the cup of my hand.
"Ooohh what about these Mum?"
She peered over critically from a delicately small and intricately decorated glass that had taken her attention. She sighed patiently, "Ohh that's a goblet" before turning back to her more deserving piece.
"Exactly! Look at all the grog you can get in there!" I exclaimed holding it up to unsuccessfully prove my point.
We wandered on through the walls of glass wear, the Mother watching my tread with an eagle's eye, my clumsy reputation for destroying all things pretty and delicate eating at her nerves.
I suddenly gasped and jumped from the path I had been warned to follow, as the Mother nearly collapsed with overwhelming anxiety.
"Maaarrmmmmm! Look at this!" I held up a heavy silver table ornament that holds candles like the rich people have in movies (I have no idea what you call them).
"Ohh let's be cultured!"
The Mother raised an eyebrow before continuing on her glass quest "Ohh I do worry about you Lana."
It wasn't long before we had to brave the crazed crowds again to get to Borders book store. I had the idea that this might pose as a safe haven with the ignorant thought that the average hungry hunter couldn't read. As I threw myself from the unreasoning rip of shoppers and across the threshold of Borders I suddenly discovered that while the savages couldn't read they still obviously liked to look at the pretty pictures and a line nearly longer than Shane Warne's phone bill snaked its' way from the counter and zig zagged through the shelves.
The Mother had abandoned me here so I had to fend for myself as I decided upon my friends and family not being worth this ordeal for the sake of their store bought presents so I instead went looking for a dvd series to get me through the next few boring weeks of unemployment.
I soon found Seinfeld's season 1 and 2 and used the gift voucher I had just recieved from my school as a prize for getting the 'Academic Excellence Award" (*bows* Thankyou! Thankyou!). Ahh... and there's that old Tall Poppy Syndrome pushing up through the weeds.
The queue was made short by the illusion that preoccupation always loyally supplies, which came in the form of a Where's-Wally styled picture book called "Where's Bin Laden?". Made me giggle till one of the check-out-chicks called "Next!".
Later that day the Mother suddenly full of the Christmas spirit for the first time that year ordered for the dusty, foul-smelling Christmas decorations to be brought down from their hiding place. As the light hit the little Santas and bulbous tree ornaments for the first time in a year they screamed for mercy, but the Mother was ruthless.
The nativity set was arranged properly upon the mantle piece with the donkey and cow as usual looking like they were about to maul and feast upon Baby Jesus. The three wise men looking as seedy as the men down at my local on Friday night and the adolescent Mary still bewildered about where baby's came from.
The 2D plastic Santa was then placed on the window sill looking like he'd really hit the ciggie pack in the past year in his reclusive state with his formerly white beard as yellow as piss along with his normally bright white eyes fading into a yellow that would put Big Bird to shame.
The pathetically tiny tree was dragged from it's box and it's limbs were than given time to be twisted in different directions to try and manipulate some sort of realistic look from it.
My suggestion of doing the traditionally Aussie custom of just getting a little eucalyptus to decorate was instantly soiled upon with the proclamation that eucalyptus stunk- literally.
Tail between legs I returned to putting more decorations on the sad plastic little tree than was humane.
Eventually we stood back to look at our our work.
Bulbous ornaments hung from door knobs and shelf edges, large lights nearly bigger than the tree itself were draped over the sad little green object, a home made star with silver foil on only one side hung from the wooden chandler, thin silver tinsel drunkenly made its' way from the cabinet, across the windows, over the Christmas cards that spelt my name wrong to come to a exhausted coiled end on top of the tv.
A red piece of head gear with Santas wobbling upon springs with lights in their arses that previous years had always seemed to make its' way to my dog's head (to her disgust) now straddled a small lamp upon the mantel piece.
It was like a tacky factory had exploded in my lounge room. I didn't know whether to laugh hysterically or reel in horror, I chose the former and decided to go for the tacky theme boots n' all. I rushed to my room and returned triumphantly holding a small object above my head.
The Mother, The Brother and his girlfriend stared quizzically until I made the movement that I hoped would be the only Australian attempt I'd make to the tack fest to be left undisturbed.
From the nativity set I removed Baby Jesus and put a small figurine of Ned Kelly in his place.