Counting Down

I have some friends here who like to complain. Every day at lunch, it’s all about what their husbands did or didn’t do, what their cousin did or didn’t do, what their supervisor did or didn’t do. Often I am amazed at the sheer quantity of wrongs that have been done against them. Now, I’m not complaining about it myself. It saves me having to talk. Sometimes I find I’m running low on ways to respond, but they don’t seem to mind.

At the moment, the main topic of conversation is Christmas. Was there ever such a rich source of things to complain about! We have mothers, fathers, step-mothers, step-fathers, brothers-in-law, grandmothers, husbands, next-door-neighbours, and cats making all sorts of unreasonable demands. Last year, I got a lot of “oh, you’re so lucky to be living on the other side of the world from your family”. There wasn’t much I could say to that because, while there are certain things I enjoy about Christmas in Australia – namely, the weather and the lights in the QVB – my family being on the other side of the world is most definitely not one of them.

This year, when they start in on the Christmas complaints, I sit back, fold my arms, and smile. There is only one place I want to spend Christmas, and in less than one week, that’s where I will be.

In the meantime, here we are. Pi and I have been spending our evenings hanging out in the glow of my little tree, which sits on top of my milk-crate shelves where those of us with a proclivity for chewing on tree-branches can’t get at it. We’ve started packing; that is, I stacked the presents I intend to bring to Canada in my suitcase while Pi tucked her mousie into the pocket, then frantically dug it out, then lay down on the suitcase lid and went to sleep.

Four days to go.