and cards transported us to another land, and I drifted in and out of the twentieth century reaching back to the turn of the nineteenth. Peering at old cards with robins and snow on from people who weren’t here anymore crisscrossed with the ones who were. I still hadn’t sorted out Christmas present. The chains of the past would have to let me go.
Juggling my new found lifestyle, (don’t mention the hairstyle) tending to restored members of family, and just coping with being me was going alright as long as I didn’t plan too far ahead, like tomorrow.
Baba, apart from coughing up a day’s worth of eating and drinking, usually in the deep of the night, was sneezing up every wall in the house. Embarking on some cleaning to fend off anxiety and stress would have me follow a trail of freckles up the stairs and beyond. ‘Pack it up Baba!’ shouting relieved stress too but I mustn’t go overboard. Wonka is firm about shouting and says I am a total hypocrite. Lecturing on the harm of raised voices when I do it myself. Well.
To a small degree I had followed the advice about life coaching and goodness knows and strangely once again, I had hit on something that I seemed to need far more than the solid line up of clients I envisaged begging to be life coached. Or should I say had a vision about? This was the main message, that if you could just picture yourself in this successful state, actually doing what you had been sitting around dreaming for years on end, well, it could come true! The revelation of this alone had me motivated and completing assignments to deadline.
Wonka was extremely proud and only warned me a couple of times that we still needed feeding and couldn’t exist on visions alone. For now it staved off thoughts of Christmas gatherings and recalling dreadful meals of yore. ‘there’s no such thing as yore! Scoffed Wonka, ‘do you mean the one where you got drunk and fell asleep on the settee and missed it altogether?’ No that one was rather entertaining. It was the pressure on us all to be kind and loving and giving that was giving me the shivers. Could I keep it up?
The cupboard under the stairs doubled as a massive warehouse for storing all those household items that wouldn’t go in the household. For some years now, it had been a dark cavern without the help of a light. Taking out the old light bulb and this before the invention of the new very expensive everlasting and unfathomable light savers we have now, to replace it with one of the everlasting ones, well the light fitting cracked. No doubt this was under the duress of finally having a change of bulb, but now, now, it would accept nothing.
Baba liked to hide in here, sometimes in the cat carrier sometimes high up on the shelves laden with all the household items, including the Christmas box. With him being black, and with the warehouse cum under the stair cupboard being lightless, he could have gone missing for days. It was our Narnia.
‘Mind your head!’ warned Wonka as I delved around looking for a, yes, a light bulb. Whilst in there though, I contemplated getting the Christmas box down. Still a month to go but would a few fairy lights cheer us up? I knew what was in there. Cards I couldn’t manage to recycle, baubles that were very last century, a string of lights I prayed would light up, and the pound Christmas tree. Some homes would boast real trees with the latest designer lighting or one of those new (ghastly) pretend trees turning all colours of the rainbow, but we, we would have none of that.
The pound tree unfurled to about three foot high and could take a couple of decorations before it looked overdone. I had bought it one Christmas when I was walking the poverty line like a trapeze. It had a lot going for it really, as neither Wonka nor Baba would want to play with it, it had no needles to shed, and it could stand in the corner nicely.
I squashed back out of the cupboard just missing Baba, and catching one of Wonka’s glittery balls. It kicked under the table to join the collection of mice, corks and plastic tops. More toys anyone?
I had been admiring the packed stockings in the supermarket, for cats. It had several toys, treats and could easily be purchased on the credit card. I had so far resisted it. Trouble was, spending money on stuff I didn’t need and as far as I knew Wonka and Baba didn’t, was another stress indicator. This I had learnt when Dad popped off to wood carving heaven much too early for my liking, and I had gone on a short period of buying weird items unfit for any purpose. One of the best things was a shapeless, oversized jumper that in reality I would have argued against wearing in my coffin.
Suffice to say, as I entered the Christmas zone, stress was but a heartbeat away. Swinging from being scrooge like to the generous jolly Uncle would have done Mr Dickens proud. On the one hand I had no money but on the other the credit card wanted to help. At my most morose and emotional moments buying something I could not afford usually moved things on a notch. Why no one had noted this, along with the box sets, as a sure fix to the dark night of the soul I didn’t care. The secret was safe with me, and the waking in the night, in a sweat over the balance on the card? Just go out there and hunt down a few more gifts and maybe a bit of food here and there.
Wonka did warn against this come day go day attitude, and wondered if I was going to watch anything on the spiritual side to balance this alarming materialistic trend out. Baby Jesus was reserved for the day itself really, but I could manage a James Stewart. Trouble was I had a new box set which although violent and racy, calmed me down a treat. And it meant I could hold off with the decision about sending cards or not. To the dwindling pack of friends and family. Like I say I was more likely to buy a stocking for Wonka (Baba wouldn’t notice) than make a silly decision about Christmas cards…..
The run up to the few days that constituted the festive season only turned the screws tighter. There was no way I needed a ceramic Santa that shielded a tea light and went all jolly and red when lit, but I had to have it. It was a reminder of how fun the festive season could be.
‘It was Baba!’ accused Wonka, when I stumbled home with the things we didn’t need and no sign of those we did. My strange dance through the hallway prompted by a . worry that the cement like cat litter would fall on top of one the cats, just meant that I fell over it instead. Life was too hard and too demanding and I wanted to give it all up. Wonka said to press on and get a grip. More than this he advised making a Christmas to do list, after tea.
‘I’ll think about it’ I moaned, and poked about in the fridge and cupboard for inspiration. There was a Christmas carol on the radio which begged to be turned off. The silence worked its magic.
Perhaps, yes perhaps, I could do Christmas after all.
Conversations with Wonka - Part two Page 2
