The joy of Christmas cards

It's December. I probably should have noticed this yesterday given it was my husband's birthday and the first day of the month, but I was so busy running to the loo in between trying to get my invoicing done that the significance eluded me. It's December. Already. How did that happen? Is it just me or are the years really speeding up? Has someone hit the fast forward switch?

I remember being a child and it taking A...G....E....S for Christmas to come around. The month of December felt like an eternity. So how is it that December now goes by so fast that I have to start planning for Christmas in January if I don't want to run out of time?

For the last few years I've thought: 'Wow, this year went fast'. But I don't ever recall a year having galloped by quite so determinedly as 2008. This year holds down my record for the World's Fastest Year Ever. I'm hoping it's a record that holds for some time as I can't face another year going by even faster. It makes me feel like I've just done several loops on a roller coaster. I'd like to sit down and steady myself for a while.

But there is no idling to be done as it, as I said, is December. Despite having completed most of my Christmas shopping I've not yet made a start on my Christmas cards. In fact, I'm toying with the idea of not doing them this year. I've bought them, donating my pounds to the British Heart Foundation charity shop, not because it's a cause close to my er, heart, but because they happened to have some cards and were en route to the car park. No I'm thinking of not doing them because here's what happens:

a) I send cards to people I see regularly. There's no need to send a long detailed letter and pictures catching up because they know what happens in my life. So the card becomes a short, sweet, not very eco friendly way of saying hi.

b) I send cards to people I haven't seen in ages normally because they live abroad but would like to stay in touch with. This ordinarily involves sending a long informative catch up letter inside the card. But thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I'm now friends with most of these people on Facebook who can therefore also access my blog and so who (if they were interested in the first place) would know exactly what was going on with our life anyway.

c) I send cards to people I feel obligated to send cards to but am not sure how we got onto the hamster wheel of sending cards to each other. Like our elderly neighbours (although the twit who wants my hedge cut down is definitely not getting one this year) and parents of our friends. These people are annoying to send to as I have to temper the rudeness of my cards and need to concentrate on writing neatly and remembering how to address them properly on the envelope. For what? Yes, yes, it's the niceties and all that yadayadayada and in the past I would have been first in the niceties conga line, but this year I feel decidedly nyeh about it. (nyeh being said with a gallic shoulder shrug picked up in Paris)

d) I send cards to people who we used to be friends with and had very good intentions of staying friends with and every year send Christmas cards to saying how we really ought to get together this year (and truly meaning it) but we NEVER EVER DO. I mean let's take the hint people. It's not going to happen is it? So what do I write in those cards: Merry Christmas. I hope 2009 is fab for you. We won't be seeing you and you won't be seeing us. Probably ever. But you know, let's stay in touch via a card once a year. Because. I'm not sure why. But let's. It helps keep postmen in shoes.

e) I send cards to people who fall into any of the above categories but who NEVER send me a card. Until now I've just thought that they were plain rude. I'd tutt and tsk about them and think evil thoughts and vow not to send a card again the next year. But then do anyway. And now I've realised that they've probably had this exact same card discussion with themselves - only they had it years ago and have long since given up on the whole thing.

So that's why I'm thinking about not sending cards this year. I know I will end up doing it. But I think I might be slightly more ruthless in my card sending and might well send some saying: Merry Christmas. This is the last Christmas card you will ever get from me unless we a) meet up b) I get one back from you c) you move abroad but are willing to invite me come and stay with you.

While I'm on this Christmas card rant (I always feel its important to keep ranting once you're on a roll because otherwise it can cause tremendous damage to your heart) I really get annoyed when I get a Christmas card that reads as follows:

Dear xxx

Merry Christmas (this is the printed bit in the card so not their writing)

Love from
xxx

I mean Come On. I know we've all lost the use of our hands due to excessive computer usage and therefore holding a pen is hard work, the cramp in your fingers reminiscent of those days when you had to write history exam essays. But honestly, send me a card like that and I'd like to return it saying: Don't bother.

Tips on how to write Christmas cards:
If it's a friend who you see regularly, then comment on something related to their life or how you're looking forward to seeing them soon. If it's someone you haven't seen for a while (or years as I've just pointed out) write some news or at least a message that takes slightly more effort than To X and Love from X. You see, the whole joy in Christmas cards is the pleasure at getting a non-bill related bit of post. It's the excitement of ripping open the envelope to see who's sending you some lovely Christmassy thoughts. But the To/From card variety is about as exciting as getting a bank statement. Only it's worse because a bank statement doesn't fill you with expectation first.

And one more Christmas card related rant. The sending of cards between pupils at pre-school and school. Do me a friggin favour. Unless they can write their own cards and read what the cards say, what the heck is the point??? So my sons each receive 15 or 20 cards in their in trays from their fellow pupils. Does that mean that they write the 15 to 20 replies? Does it hell. It means that I get to ensure permanent finger disability thanks to writing out a bunch more cards that literally say: To Jack, love from Josh. Why???? Surely the sole purpose of this activity is to kill more trees. The children aren't learning anything from it. The parents are simply trying to one up each other or feel duty bound to return the card. It's the first card initiator who should be shot at dawn.

If the children want to write their own cards, by all means, I'll hand them a stack. But until then, I am vetoing the writing of inane cards to pre-schoolers. If I am snubbed at the school gate, so be it.

Phew. I feel soooooooooooo much better for getting all that off my chest. Must go write some cards now.

Old photos. Making the case for prozac

I made the foolish mistake of looking at some old photos of me today. It wasn't intentional. I was trying to find an old, unused photo album that my children could use to stick their gogo stickers into instead of decorating our new kitchen cabinets with them. While rummaging in a dusty box I unearthed several random pictures that have never quite made it into an album.

There I was. Young. Wrinkle free. Young. Glowing. Young. Sadly, these aren't pictures taken of me as a child or teenager. No, these were pictures taken in the years just before I got married and had children. Not a million years ago then. So how the hell did I go from being all dewy skinned to haggard looking in such a short space of time? This is a rhetorical question. I know the answer. I've banged on about the lack of sleep not to mention wine guzzling brought about by children many, many times. And the answer is right there.

But the pictures also throw up a few other depressing observations:

a) I used to travel to exotic places. Bali. Kenya. Zanzibar. Now we head off to B&Bs on the Isle of Wight because at least it involves a ferry ride, which makes it feel slightly more adventurous and tropical than just driving to a Butlins in Skegness (that said, I've never gone to a Butlins or Skegness so maybe I need to challenge myself - it would undoubtedly be an adventure but probably not of the exotic variety).

b) I used to wear far more mid-rift tops and short skirts. Both pieces of apparel have long since been retired from my wardrobe. I haven't quite graduated onto jeans with an elasticated waist yet, but it's not long now. I've already succombed to granny knickers and sensible shoes.

c) Ex-boyfriends are quite hard to explain to a person under the age of 5. My son kept enquiring 'who's that man next to you mummy?' and 'where's daddy in this picture?' and 'why's that man kissing you mummy?' making me feel like something of a strumpet, while simultaneously making me wonder what on earth I saw in some of them. The only good thing about ex-boyfriends is that you can find most of them on Facebook (if you're so inclined) and most look as though they've also been attacked by the middle-aged fairies. Which is satisfying.

d) Hairdressers should not be allowed to perm hair. By law.

e) I need to move back to South Africa. It was the lightly bronzed skin from perpetually sunny days that made me radiate health. This sodding country literally sucks the colour out of your complexion. It's not surprising I look grey and wan - it's the reflection off the clouds.

It has been years since I saw a decent photograph of me. This is largely because I'm normally the person taking the pictures. But I also can't quite believe what I see in the pictures, so I avoid them.

Frown lines. Lots of. And they are so very ingrained that you could lose an ant colony in the furrows. Black bags under my eyes that have supersized themselves into shipping containers. A double chin that seems to start somewhere near my ears and heads forward into a nice wrinkly, wobbly waddle. I'm 35 for god sake. Where the hell did that come from? Hair that never looks good. Ever. (Except for the day the hairdresser blow dries it and which I can never repeat again). Teeth too big for my mouth. Lips too thin for my face. Arms that belong in a bingo hall. A stomach that I could share with several Somalians. Breast that now loiter near my belly button. And knees that should be hidden at all times.

When I look in the mirror, I don't see this person. I don't see a supermodel admittedly, but I feel optimistic enough to leave the house without a wearing a sack cloth and a paper bag on my head. But when I see photos of myself, I do wonder why I possibly thought anything other than the aforementioned attire was acceptable.

And the very, very worst thing is when someone else looks at the same photo I am shocked by and says: 'That's a great one of you. You looked amazing. You are so photogenic,' in a way that suggests they genuinely believe the picture looks better than the real you.

I keep wanting to have some professional photographs taken of us as a family but I dread to see the results. But part of me thinks I must do it, because in another 10 years time I will look back on those pictures and write a blog about how I looked so young, so dewy, so wrinkle free. And I'll wonder why the hell I was ever worried. How thoroughly depressing. Prozac anyone?