Mind The Coffee.

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I’m sitting outside my favourite cafe in Sunbury. I’ve got a mug of cappuccino, a fag, a notebook and I’m trying to write myself into the moment. I was reading a bit about mindfulness yesterday which talked about getting lost in the act of writing. I like the notion. Like the idea of being caught up in the act of something and forgetting about everything else. It made me think though, that when I write I’m surrounded by voices. Too often as I lay down each sentence I’m worrying about what this or that person will make of my ramblings. It’s not a good way to operate when writing and I’m starting to see it’s not a good way to live.

My readings about mindfulness has made me realise I don’t spend a lot of time in the present. I’m usually regretting the past, worrying about the future or flicking aimlessly from one to the other. Just lately all this internal stuff is wearing me out. Perhaps as I get older I’m realising how precious time is and I’m trying to break my old way of thinking. Over the years I guess I’ve just let my worries, my fears and my daydreams just run loose in the paddock of my mind. But maybe this mindfulness stuff has something in it. What if now and then I could just be in the now. What if I could wash the car and instead of thinking about ten different things at the same time. What if I could just feel the sponge sliding over each panel and marvel as the shine appeared. What if sometimes I took their advice, closed my eyes, take a few deep breaths and appreciated the moment.

I know logically that there is no one listening when I write. When I sit and scribble it’s just me the pen and the paper. It’s just my thoughts, my truths, my ideas of what the world is like. It may not be the way others see the world but it’s the way I see it, and that’s ok. Maybe in part I’m still a skinny young kid in the commission flats who wants to please everyone and be liked by everyone. But like I said before I’ve walked too many miles on that treadmill and I need a new pair of Reeboks. They reckon you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but then again they also say your never too old to learn.

I read a book recently called the Art Of happiness. It was written by an american psychiatrist who had spent a lot of time interviewing the Dalai Lama. I loved the book. Loved the simple Buddhist philosophies and as usual thought, ” I know, I’ll become a buddhist and then I’ll find peace.’ But in the cold light of morning, outside the old coffee shop I’ve decided against it. I was a christian a while back, thinking talking to God would complete me. But all it did was make me feel guilty about everything I did or much worse, everything I enjoyed. So the concept of signing up for another religion leaves me a bit wary.

At 56, I’ve come to the realisation that my answers can’t be found in other mens quotes, however comforting and profound they might sound. Likewise my happiness can’t be based on shopping sprees. Cause I’m finding that the comfort of shopping is a bit like a cigarette, twenty minutes after I have one, I’m craving another. Where is contentment then? Where can I find my peace? Where am I in this crazy game of finding myself?  How can one man, however good, hold all the answers for another? After all a priest is just a bloke. The local vicar is no brighter than most. Both feel hunger, pain, love, anger, warmth and disdain, just like us mere mortals. How then can they instruct me on how to live my life. Maybe by looking for answers in religion, I’m really lookin for a quick fix and trying to escape the fact that after all these years, I’ve just got to be happy with me.

So anyway, I’m gonna give this mindfulness stuff a go. I’m going to try to seek out those verandah moments, and lose myself in the writing. And try rather than listening to the echo of others, to trust my voice even when it’s faint.

Keep The Faith People!

Flying Too High?

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Well, here I am. It’s 6.00 am Sunday morning and I still Haven’t written the blog I’d intended to write on Friday. I’ve been procrastinating, spring cleaning, smoking, doing anything except writing. I feel like a bit of a fake. Over the past few weeks I’ve been teaching a writing class and urging new writers just to jump in and splash words around. But here I stand on the writing shore to scared to dip my feet in. When I started this blog I intended to post once a week regardless of how I felt. It was a personal challenge I’d set for myself. I wasnt’ thinking about an audience, because at the outset I didn’t imagine having one. Writing this blog was going to be pure therapy. It was going to be a way of ordering my racing thoughts and something that would exercise my writing muscles.

Much to my surprise along the way I’ve been blessed with a group of readers who cheer me on. You’ve stuck with me during the weeks when I was to crook to write. You’ve rode on trams and trains with me. Listened with your hearts when I’ve written about the black dog. And trudged around Sunbury at my side as I’ve stuffed Coles catalogues into letter boxes. The blog that was going to be a solitary activity has become a shared journey. So as I sit here this morning scratching around for something to write I feel the only way to go is to be honest.

Today I don’t have a neat little homily. Over the past week my energy levels have been through the roof. I’ve been rushing around jumping from one job to another. I’ve been feeling invincible. Feeling like life, talking, teaching were the easiest things in the world to do and that I’m doing them with panash. I’ve got to admit to you my friends that maybe I’m a bit manic.

I’ve never admitted that before. I’ve always been prepared to share when I’ve been depressed, but the highs that come with being bi polar I’ve always been reticent to talk about. I’ve always wanted people to think that the guy with the quick one liner is the real me. Fact is when I’m being my funniest I’m not being me at all. When I get manic I find it hard to focus on anything. My mind races like an out of control movie projector. Images flick across the screen of my mind and each dream each leap seems possible.

There I said it. It’s been a good week.It’s been too good a week and it’s time for me at 56 to be mature enough and honest enough to say It’s time to slow down. When I was unwell at christmas my doctor put my antidepressant up. I’m going to see her tomorrow and tell  her it’s time to put it back down. In the past I wouldn’t have done that. I would have ridden the high for as long as it lasted. I would have told myself that I am invincible, cool, articulate, sexy. I would have ridden the wave for all it was worth and ignored the fact that eventually it would have spat me out on the beach.

Maybe I’m getting a bit wiser. Maybe I’m just getting a bit more honest with myself. In some ways I’ve seduced myself into believing that I want to be that over-confident bloke, who always knows what to say and how to say it. I’ve wanted to be the guy with endless stamina who fancies himself as a bit of a rock star. But the truth is being that guy wears me out and is always followed to closely by a fall.

But this time I’m not going to tumble up onto the beach. This time I’m just going to be honest. I’m going to take action, ignore the lure of the high and save myself before I fall off the wave.

I Can See The Sun.

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I don’t know if I’ll be able to focus on writing today. I’m perched on the verandah of a holiday cottage in Daylesford. My bride and I are having a few days away to celebrate our anniversary. Right now, the love of my life is having a nap. This morning we trekked around the Botanical Gardens, had a coffee at a cafe in the main drag and perused the offerings of the local shops. We held hands, walked a lot, laughed, and savoured the fact that we had  all the time in the world. I bought a new belt  and a cake of hand made soap. Caz bought a woven tote bag and some purple paint for her next painting. They weren’t big purchases. They were just a small way of spoiling ourselves.

After our shopping trip we drove back to our little cottage, had lunch and pondered our good fortune. While I dozed behind the cover of a book, Caz got her craft thing happening. Outside our little hideaway a thunderstorm was brewing.  I was with a mate yesterday and we were bemoaning the fact that Sunbury never seems to get decent storms any more.  We remembered the storms of summers gone when after a few days of sweltering heat it’d get humid and thunder and lightning would break the sky open and down it came – heaps of rain.  Gutters became streams, washing got soaked and kids in thongs and shorts would be told to “get in out of it”.

Well here I am a day later, as I said, perched on a different verandah, watching and listening to a good old fashioned storm.  I’ve heard more thunder in the last half hour than I have for ages.  And the mass of grey clouds that rolled in after a hot morning are sending down the real thing.  The rain is tapping out a sweet tune on the tin roof.  The trees that surround the cottage are dripping with relief.  Yep, it’s a cool change – a bit like this holiday my bride and I are having.

Over the last ten years we’ve had our share of dry spells.  we’ve had times when worries of family life have built up like humidity in summer.  We’ve had our share of thunderstorms, where our opposing views clash like angry clouds.  And we’ve had tears fall like rain upon our parched souls.  But always after the anger, there’s a sense the air is cleared and things are starting afresh.  Ten years of marriage, ten years of life giving rain.  I’m going now cause my bride’s awake and I’m sure I can see the sun.

Let’s Go Out The Back

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It’s funny how sometimes I scramble around looking for something to write about. I cast my mind back over the week and think of things that have stopped me in my tracks, made me smile, or perhaps made me sad. I’m at the tail end of what has been a hectic but productive week. There’s been heaps going on, all of it positive but still the subject of todays blog eluded me. And then! in a flash of inspiration, or maybe desperation I thought , why not actually write about our verandah and of course the dreaming there on.

The first thing I’ll tell you about verandah is that it’s a big bugger. It’s about ten meters long and nearly five meters wide. Impressive hey! But I’m old enough to appreciate that size isn’t everything and it’s what you do with your verandah that counts, not how big it is! We’ve been renting this place for nearly four years. I still remember doing a walk through with the agent, stepping out the back door  and getting my first glimpse of the outdoor area. My bride and I scooted home to our old place hastily filled in the application form said a quick prayer and talked non stop about the verandah.

We had to wait a couple of weeks to move in and during that time I’d pretty much forgotten the inside layout of the house, all I keep seeing was the verandah. In my imagination I saw the four of us whiling away the hours under the shelter of treated pine and colourbond. I pictured alfresco dining, coffee sipping, story writing and of course a comfy spot to have a smoke. When the agent rang to tell us we’d got the verandah, ‘I mean house,’ our packing took on a manic pace. Our old house had a nice spot out the back , but this new joint had the Taj Mahil hanging off of it, and it was all ours.

Looking back over the nearly four years that we’ve been living here I realise that nearly every plan, most arguments and all of the wonderful bits in between have taken place under the corrugated big top. Out on that verandah, my bride and I have laughed and loved. We’ve worried about the kids, thanked god for the kids. We’ve planned the budget, and adjusted the budget when my overspending has got us into bother. The night of my stepdaughter’s deb, me and the bride sat out there till six in the morning savouring every moment of our girls coming out. The old verandah has probably lost count of all the, ‘I love you’s and all the I’m sorry’s. The verandah is where we’ve had our fights, made our peace, planned our future and listened to 100′s of hours of radio ads.

It seems whenever life gets a bit much Caz or myself utters that comfortable line, Let’s go out the back. Those five words are an unspoken code for lets talk. Lets start again away from the business that is the kitchen. Lets go over it with a coffee in one hand and our hearts in the other and find our way forward. There’s something about sitting out there and having a smoke that makes all the hard stuff seem doable. Something about looking out at the sky, looking into my brides eyes that makes me think we can handle anything.

I reckon they should make our politicians move out of that big building in Canberra and stick them all on a shady lean-to. Occasionally I’ll see a snippet of parliament on the telly and I’m always struck be the closeness of the chamber. I’d defy anyone to try to solve problems in a place like that. The honourable members need to get out in the air, here the roof creaking from the sun and listen to the rain playing a tune above there heads. We should have a national verandah, with comfy chairs, mugs of coffee and maybe then we’d see politicians talk like real people and act like they care.

I’d be lost without our good old verandah. It’s where I do most of my thinking. It’s my place to take stock. My spot to think about the day that was. To think about what I achieved and to rethink things I may have buggered up. Sometimes out there I catch a glimpse of a world where everyone gets an even break. It’s a nice picture, you should drop by some time. See ya, I’m goin out the back.

Our Verndah

Our Verndah

My Sun Through The Clouds

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This weeks blog is about my bride Carolyn , who is my greatest supporter, my best friend and my confidence . Carolyn  and I met twelve years ago in a creative writing class in Sunbury. I was lost when we met . I’d given up on the notion of ever falling in love again. I felt depressed, trapped. I thought that my life was mapped  out. That the way I was living was just the way it was. My days were full of work and my nights were long and empty.  I reckoned love was something that happened to handsome young men , and I didn’t feel handsome and I sure  didn’t feel  young.

After we’d met we started writing to each other. Little letters weaved their way through the posties hands and with each delivery we discovered more about each other. She told me she liked my writing. Told me about her life and I wrote back and told her about mine.  I couldn’t believe that this beautiful creature was writing to me. When each letter arrived I’d read it like my life depended on it, and looking back now I reckon it did.

We fell in love swapping letters. She wrote. I wrote . I’d never been any good at courting. First dates, making conversation, stealing a first kiss and ordering wine at a restaurant weren’t my strong suit. But with a pen and paper I felt I could just be me. I told her about my world. My kids. My fears. My failings. Caz signed each letter, ‘ God bless you,’ and as the letter writing continued I knew he had.

Like call good romantic comedies our path took a few turns to the left and right before we became a couple. Caz had two young children and I thought I was too set in my ways to become a step-parent. I moved away thinking I needed a fresh start.  But through it all we kept writing to each other.

The day before valentine’s day 10 years ago, we got married. I’ll never forget how beautiful she looked that day, because she looks just as beautiful  today. In our journey since  we’ve been through a lot. The young stepchildren are now young adults. We’ve supported each other through mental illness, family hassles, my midlife crisis . And through it all my Bride has been there helping me find myself. And teaching me how to like myself.

Carolyn  is a gentle encourager  . She loves me and the kids in a way that no one else could. She feeds me not just with stuff that goes into a bowl, but with stuff that goes into my heart. She balances the budget. Paints, draws and writes with  passion.  She loves cats and old people and Abba and Wham. She  gives so much of herself that at times I think she’ll break. But she never does.

For 44 years I felt ugly.  But thanks to her I now feel handsome. My Bride makes the impossible seem attainable. She’s the sun breaking through the clouds. She was the one that tells me to keep on trying . She’s the one that keeps on loving me no matter how many times I stuff up.

We share our days, our lives and  our dreams. We surprise each other. Sometimes annoy each other but through it all find a way to love each other. The weekend after next we’re off for a holiday to celebrate our anniversary. My bride has booked a little cottage so it will just be the two of us on a different verandah , talking, dreaming and laughing . Dont bother calling the mobile, Cause I won’t be answering.

TRAIN THERAPY

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I’m a couple of days late with the old blog because I’ve been having therapy. Don’t panic. It’s not therapy where you lie on a couch and talk. No my treatment, my therapy was a visit from my grandson Jake. The course of medicine I had involved, two train trips to the city. A long session at the Sunbury pool. A visit to the laser tag thingy at water gardens and a strict regime of silly jokes, most of which my dear grandson didn’t laugh at.

I drove up to Euroa on Wednesday to pick up the prescribed 10-year-old. The drive out-of-town helped to blow some of the cobwebs away, but it was the drive home with my little house guest that  started to shift the fog. We talked about some of the stuff we might do during our time together. We planned a trek into the city on the train.  Talked about school and holidays and a movie Jake had seen recently. And when I thought back on our conversation that night I realised that for the first time in weeks, I’d been truly in the ‘ Moment.’ For two hours my mind hadn’t been racing from one worry to the next. My mind had been focused on my boy, the road and the promise of adventure.

Thursday was hot so logical place to head was our local pool. I did my dog paddle, kick board noodle thing, while Jake and my stepdaughter gave me cheek from the lap lane. I might not be a master in the aquatic scene but I can splash with the best of them and I reckon I gave as good as I got. I’ve been going to the pool a couple of times a week lately to try to unwind. Sometimes it works but at other times it’s felt like I’m just soaking my thoughts rather than washing them away. But thursday was different. Thursday it was fun. Thursday was about the three of us just mucking around. Thursday was a Good day.

On Friday we left my wife at our friend Rose’s  house in Richmond and gave Jake’s new myki a workout. We went into to city on the train to visit the film and television thing at Fed Square. Caught a tram to the museum. Prowled the shops in Swanston Street. Went through the loop just for the hell of it. And for lunch we had sandwiches and a giggle at Flinders Street station.  Through it all I was in the moment. As I  watched my grandson watching the world I glimpsed a bit of a younger me and my heart felt lighter. During my last trip to the city I’d been pondering Australia’s immigration policy, but on this trip all I focussed on was the unfolding adventure of being with my travelling buddy.

We went back into the city on Saturday morning. Jake fancied another train ride and I fancied his ten-year old sense of doing something just for fun. Jake bought a wallet he’d seen in a shop the day before. We listened to a brass band pumping its way down Swanston Street as part of the Australia day celebrations. I sipped on a take away coffee while the boy put his myki into his new ‘ Real leather wallet,’ On the trip home Jake took photo’s through the carriage window. He talked about the laser tag and how he ,’ Couldn’t wait to get there.’ Jake’s eyes were full of excitement. And my tired old mind was having a rest.

Trains, laser tag and wallets made in China, aren’t traditional medicine. But I tell you what my grandson jake sure is!

P.S Thanks to everyone for all the comments and well wishes over the last week. Much love, Baz.

Here I Am.

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Hi, It’s me. If you’re a regular reader you may have been wondering  what happened to those weekly blogs I’d vowed to publish. Well the thing is I’ve been a bit crook. My urge to write disappeared. Over the last month or so I’ve been finding hard to focus my attention on anything. My minds been racing. Thoughts, old ghosts, self-doubt have been surging through my head like a train through a tunnel. The thing that’s really knocked me on my bum is the fact that I’d convinced myself I was cured. I told myself that I was working more, riding my bike more, keeping the kitchen cleaner because I had a new zest for life. But the truth is I was trying to get my body to keep pace with my mind and in doing so I ran out of steam. I remember posting during mental health week and  feeling so confident about my capacity to cope with the black dog, but just at the minute he’s out of the yard and chasing me up and down the street.

I  was talking to a friend the other day and he commented that my little blogs always seem to end on a positive note. When I thought about it I realised that maybe there were a couple of reasons why I feel the need to  tie up the loose ends. Firstly, perhaps in the past I went to one to many sermons where the vicar would sum up the meaning of life in a fifteen minute spiel. And secondly and more importantly life and all its half-finished stories, it’s twists and turns still frighten the shit out of me. I struggle a lot to find myself and when I’m a bit crook, I loose the struggle. At 56 I feel almost ashamed to admit I don’t know myself. For years I’ve looked for a sense of wholeness in lots of places. I’ve knelt down in churches and tried to pray . Gone on and still go on manic shopping sprees convincing myself that if I just buy that new phone I’ll feel better. I’ve looked for me in the past. Looked for me in other people’s versions of life. I’ve imagined, daydream, fantasized about how one of these days I’ll do something worthwhile. And in all those bullshit mind trips have come to realise if I don’t learn to like me as I am, I risk being lost forever.

My wife Caz, has been trying to get me to slow down for a couple of months. Ever so gently she’s been trying to tell me, ‘ I think you’re you’re getting unwell love.’ To my shame now each time I’ve responded with anger and denial. ‘ I  know what I’m doing.. I don’t need you to tell me what’s happening to me.. I’m not sick I’m just angry and busy. ‘ But the other night when things  caught up with me it was Caz that held me while I pleaded for my mind  to just let me rest for a while. I’m lucky to have her . Lucky to be loved.

So now I’m waiting for an appointment at the clinic in Sunshine.  There gonna review my medication and hopefully get the old chemicals back into balance. For my part I’m doing my best to slow down. We’ve cut back on the junk mail runs. I’m reading a book on building self-esteem and . I’ve signed up for a mindfulness class. And I’m hoping to make peace with myself.

Thanks for listening. Much Love, Baz.

Finding Christmas

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I Didn’t blog last week, cause I felt too sad. I went to a funeral on the Monday it was my mums birthday on the Saturday and both events left me feeling a bit lost. The funeral was for a woman I met in a writing group earlier this year. When I think back now I’d only met Jenny six times. But there was just something special about the way she encouraged me to take risks with the group that made me feel especially close to her. From the first session I knew Jenny was on my side. I told her I was new at this teacher caper and at every opportunity she tried to spur me on. Jenny was determined that one day our little group would continue. That we could form  a community of writers and learn and support each other. As I left her funeral I felt sad that Jenny wouldn’t be there when we get the group back together. I felt sad for her family that christmas without Jenny at the table, wouldn’t be the same.

As the end of the week drew closer I couldn’t stop thinking about my mum. Her birthday was the fifteen and it’s been five years since mum died. I used to love mum’s birthday. Used to love the fact that to her the simplest gift was like treasure. Mum loved ornaments and stuffed toys and flowers and her little unit at Nagambie was like a shrine of birthday presents. Giving mum a five dollar nick nack from the reject shop was like giving her the world. After she died my sister-in-law and I went over to pack up the unit. Putting those ornaments into packing boxes was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

My mood didn’t budge till the Sunday when I went to see my grandson Jake sing at the carols by candlelight in Wodonga. As my bride and  I drove up I wondered if I was in the right frame of mind for christmas songs in the park. But when Jake walked onto that stage my sadness left me, my heart soared and I found my christmas spirit. I watched him. Watched my wife and daughter watching him and thought to myself, life is good.

On the drive home I thought  a lot about the people we share life with and those we miss. I thought about Jenny and her gift of encouragement. About mum and her nick nacks. I thought about Jake and his grin as wide as christmas and for the first time in a while realised how blessed I am.

Just Doin the washing Up.

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At 56 I’ve come to realise I’m not like most blokes. I’m not much of a sports fan, don’t like beer, haven’t got a shed full of power tools, but I reckon, I’m the best dishwasher in Sunbury.  Some might say that cleaning pots and pans and shining cutlery is not much of a strong suit. We live in a society where we worship sportsman and the rich and famous but I reckon it’s time we started to applaud and acknowledge the effort it takes to tidy up the kitchen after a meal!  Sure those high marking footballers can bring a crowd to their feet. The rich and famous swan about at this premier or that and tell us how tough life was on the set. But I wonder if any of them know Morning Soft is the best dishwashing liquid or that microfiber cloths leave your benchtops sparkling! Somehow I can’t picture Brad Pitt rocking home from a night at the Oscars and knocking over the dishes before he hits the hay.

For me doing the washing up isn’t a chore. I get a real sense of achievement out of that simple little task. Over the years I feel I’ve become, at the risk of sounding boastful, something of an expert. I reckon I’ve tried every dishwashing liquid on the market. I can spot a set of shonky rubber gloves from ten feet away. And the amount of knowledge I have about tea towels, well, I really shouldn’t brag. But while were on the subject, next weeks blog will be a discussion on cotton vs linen!

A couple of months back while perusing the cleaning products at the supermarket I found the holy grail of rubber gloves. As I reached up and took hold of the , ‘ Tough Task Outdoor Heavy Duty babies,’ I knew my quest for the top was in sight. While other blokes might have bought them to paint a fence, I got em because I knew I could have my washing up water as hot as hell. I reckon I could use  those gloves could handle molten steel. If there’s ever a nuclear attack on this country it’ll just be me, the cockroaches and my Hercules gloves. But for the princely sum of $3.98 I’ve taken my exploits in the kitchen sink to a new height. Our plates almost dry themselves upon hitting the rack and our cutlery sparkles like diamonds,

My daughter has one of those whiz-bang dishwashing machines and when I go up for a visit she makes me load up the white and silver beast claiming, ‘ It really does save time dad.’ Now I’m not a time and motion expert but I reckon by time you bugger about stacking everything into those silly racks I could have washed them by hand gave them the once over with the terry towel and be back in the recliner eating dessert. And anyway I reckon doing the washing up by hand is a nice way to say, ‘ Thanks for feeding me.’

I guess I’m just old-fashioned. Or maybe my obsession with washing up  dates back to my days as a kitchen hand at the restaurant where I had my first job. There were no machines, just a grumpy old chef telling you to talk less and wash more. The plates and cups like the insults from the chef de mason, just kept on coming. Once in a blue moon these days  I have a night off from the dishes and my stepkids do the job. They  grown about how many dishes there are and carry on like washing up is a punishment . I wonder how they would have gone doing the pile  after a wedding reception where they’ve had four courses and there’s 130 of the buggers. The other kitchen hand and I used to take turns of washing and drying and used the spurs of the chef to set speed records.

These days I don’t race the clock. I enjoy the task. I think about the day that was. Think about my bride who cooks for me and cares for me. Sometimes when I wash up I think about writing, about the past, about the future. There’s something about putting our kitchen back in order, something about a stack of clean plates that symbolises order in the messy kitchen of my mind. So if you’re looking for peace don’t worry about taking up yoga. Just get some morning fresh a good pair of gloves and keep your water hot!

Letters and Phonecalls.

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It’s the run up to christmas so the old junk mail round has been heavier than usual this week  . Each day I’ve  been a battling  to try to stuff more and more paper  into overflowing letter boxes. Seems everyone’s got a monster christmas sale on. The shops are  flogging everything from bon bons to engine oil and trying to convince people to spend up big . As  I trudged around this week I worried about already cash strapped families being cajoled into spending and then spending even more on gifts that will supposedly make the recipient feel special.

I’ve felt a bit guilty too. The more catalogues I deliver, the more I get paid, which in a way makes me part of the machine. Part of the push to get the christmas tills ringing and the plastic cards swiping. I know for my bride  and I just getting through the fortnight requires a budgeting act on her behalf which is a balancing act. So I can relate to the poor letterbox owners on my round. At times I have a little voice telling me I should be spoiling my family more. That a bigger fridge, an outdoor setting, ( that I didn’t find on the nature strip,) would make the holiday season more comfortable. I’d like to buy my grandson Jake that star wars leggo thing I saw in one of the brochures. I’d like to see his eyes light up in surprise as he ripped the christmas wrapping of it. But take solace in the fact he’ll thank just as warmly for the book I got him for ten bucks.

I worry that for some people who read those colourful brochures I peddle , it might make them feel that they are  not in the main game. I worry that they might feel swamped by the  pictures of happy faces staring back at them from the Kmart catalogue. That they might feel that no money to buy gifts makes them poor. But the older I get the more I’ve come to appreciate that it’s doing the little things, not buying the big things that people we care about really need.

Two things I do know that have got cheaper are phone calls and note pads. I reckon a simple phone call  can be a gift which is priceless. A simple, ‘ Gidday, I was just thinking about you and thought I’d give you a ring,’ would be a present anyone would be glad to receive. And if you make the call from one of those old-fashioned landlines prices start from around twenty cents. For  $2 you can buy a note pad and write someone a letter. For most of us the mail is full of envelopes with little windows, but for the grand sum of sixty-five cents you could just make someones christmas. You could fill the letter with the love that person has given you throughout the year. You could tell them you intended to get them a large screen TV, but you’d already sealed the envelope!

So I’m sorry about all that stuff I’ve been cramming into your mailbox. I hope you’re not buying suff you can’t afford. I reckon the best gift any of us can give is ourselves and we don’t need glossy junk mail to find that gift. See Ya.