Christmas Done

I admit I couldn't crow about my efforts this year; the outside lights never did go up, I was too tired even to write cards for the neighbourhood, and certain presents remain unwrapped, in some cases unchosen even. My hands fell to my sides and stayed there. My in-laws came up determined to be kind and helpful and they succeeded in all these things; Christmas fairies loaded and unloaded the dishwasher, clearing away happened in the blink of an eye, there was much help in the kitchen. There were games and films to watch and books to read. Only now do I feel the post Covid nastiness really beginning to fade. R positively deserved wings for his efforts in looking after us all.

Yesterday/today is my mother's birthday and I have not been able to reach her. We spoke on Christmas eve and day though, so that's something. I hope to try and contact her today.

I had some wonderful presents this year, but I confess my special cherishing went out to the anonymous parcel I received which included one copy of Demon Copperhead, two copies of All The Light We Cannot See and a Key Stage Three Geography Workbook. It made me smile then, it's making me smile now.

Films included A Christmas Carol of course, this year it was the Kelsey Grammer Scrooge, insisted on by foster niece and thoroughly enjoyable; then there was Oppenheimer, which was not enjoyable but is clearly some kind of masterpiece. Would I ever need to watch it again? As Cillian Murphy is hypnotic, I may have to. I am not sure the chronological weaving in and out entirely worked... no wait, I am pretty sure they did... what then makes me hesitate? Some moments do not quite convince. But I appreciated the mythologising of the man and his world, loved the linking to Prometheus on more levels than just the bringing of fire. Then last night for my sins I watched Saltburn. Gawd. Gormenghast meets Brideshead Revisited with added sex and subtracted personality, possibly incorporating the easiest plot twist since Tom Sawyer's ruse re the fence. Saltburn's been touted as folk horror but it's actually the tragedy of Man's inability to have sex with money. Fitzgerald did it better, in fact I am beginning to suspect he's the only one who could do it at all.

Sunday's Child

Bro's having a very hard time.

Yesterday he said a couple of things. One was the question;

'Why does everything work out for you?' Long pause... 'Sometimes I wish I was you.'

Mum used to say say stuff like this to me 'you're so lucky, nothing ever goes wrong for you.' She forgot and will never remember again, that if there was some ordained quota of misfortune we must all fulfil, she has been as much 'bad luck' as any daughter needs. I don't resent it because so much was beyond her control, but now and again wonder if it would be too much to ask for a momentary awareness from family.

Meanwhile, more from the Bro;

'Do you remember when Dad wanted to move us to Spain?'

I did. I had a little consternation at the time because I knew no Spanish. Mum simply couldn't find time to teach us and there were no options in school, but I wanted to be free of our home town, I was lonely and sad there. He carried on;

'I told them that I wanted to be in the school play, I had learned my lines and everything, and if they forced me to go to Spain, I would run away and never come back to them. And I often wondered if that made them change their minds...'

I've no idea, but I remembered my disappointment at the decision to stay all those years ago.
You wish you were me? The thing you needed, rootedness and belonging in one place were inprisonment and a trap to me. If we swapped skins, the person you really are would be screaming with frustration within half an hour, and the person I really am would be demanding my liver back.

No messages from him this morning. Hopefully his sorrows have softened into sleep, and all the might-have-beens have dwindled away. But I might as well accept that to my family, whatever really happened, they'll always see me as the lucky one, Sunday's Child. People pick myths to fit you, don't they? Reality's got little to do with it. Might as well shrug and accept the story.