Spent the period before Christmas in a fug of money worries. Gary provided the bare basics by raiding his credit card, which ought to give me a total headache and a dose of tangential outrage, but what the heck, I have decided to let the fug continue.
Its not that if I dont look it will all go away, I'm not that stupid, but if I dont volunteer responsibility for all the worrying that could be done, then others (Gary) will have to pick up their own cross, so to speak. Thats me, normally, not a domesticated sort, could leave rubbish on the floor for a week, but if I see emotional baggage left lying around, I automatically pick it up and hobble after people ineffectually trying to hand it back, or at least share it out a bit. Too many times I've watched others skip and hop down the road to ruin because I am voluntarily dragging their crucifix on my own back, along with half a dozen others and a couple of tons of carry-on luggage.
I have ticked and tutted, sweated and worried, threatened and shouted, but now, now I have my head in a paper bag and about time too.
A side effect of my blinkered approach to Christmas is that I have at least a dozen lovely people who sent us cards, but never got one back, and that will mean sitting down to write a proper New Year letter, to make amends. Its not happening until at least the 6th, mind you, when I carefully strip all the cards of the blue tack thats holding them to the living room wall.
Oh grief, I never sent one to my best mate in the world, Caroline B, I never even sent her a birthday card. Oh shit.