My Mother's Mince Pies, A Brown Parcel, and Spam and Eggs

Christmas reminds me of my mother's mince pies. She used to throw them at me just as dusk was falling and shout, 'Get a bloody job, and don't come back until you've got one!' Then she would slam the front door. The fact I was eight years old never entered - what I believe to be - an irrational mind. I remember sitting for several hours in a snowdrift listening to the church bells ringing in the distance. I wondered what would be in my brown parcel on Christmas Day? I knew I'd swear and curse if it was mincemeat again.

My elder brother always received the best present: a wooden train set, a plastic trumpet, or a Cowboy Annual. Who in their right mind gives a son mincemeat? My sister once got a wig? What was that all about? Darned if I know? It's not like she was bald, or anything.

My mother often sent me away with cold ironic words: “How nice!” "Whatever!" "Don't forget to write!" "What occupation have you then?!" and tell me to give them to our next door neighbour. I believe my mother may have been struck on the head with a heavy object when she was young, or perhaps had lived too long with old furniture. She once made me sit in our dustbin for three hours because I said Grandmother smelled funny. I've fond memories of Christmas, especially Christmas Eve, when I was allowed into the house to sleep in a warm bed.

I have no photographs of my mother during that time but I remember she resembled Santa Claus to a degree: her red nose, black hooded eyes filled with resentment, pale face, long hair, and white scraggly beard (she made a point of not shaving at Christmas). As she served our Christmas meal - spam and eggs - she smoked a cigar and downed shots of whisky.

The brown parcels were not handed out until the meal was consumed and the table cleared. My father twisted his vocal chords in an attempt to sing a carol, and we all clenched our teeth waiting for its painful demise. I believe it may be the only time we felt like a real family. Then the radio would be switched on - tuned to some station broadcasting melancholy classical music. Suddenly, I understood the need for Buddhism, though I had never heard of it.

While the radio crackled my father would exchange his normal attire for women's clothes?! He would make a short speech about Santa being bi-sexual or something(?!) and imitate our next-door neighbours who - at this juncture - were usually glaring through our front window.

The brown parcels containing our present would then be handed out by my father dressed in drag. I remember feeling faint with rage. A bloody hamburger! I threw the uncooked meat in the direction of my father's new dress, cursed and sweared, and ran out into the cold, crisp air.

That night I rode the subway all night from north of of the Bronx to Coney Island. I hadn't even five cents so I slipped under the turnstile. My heart beat in time with the falling snowflakes. I drifted in and out of sleep. I was a kid, small, with my nose close to the ground, and a curious imagination. I could sense more magical moments, unexpected sights, and wonders lay up ahead.

Reflections: The street outside my house is covered in snow. The wind is bitter and the absence of pedestrians and children is proof of severe weather conditions. One of the great things about Christmas is that you can relax with family, relatives and friends and just be yourself. There is no one to impress. Time to put away the mask. It's a relief to see the faces of people you love, or to hear their voices on the telephone.

All relationships endure conflict at some stage. Hopefully, there is enough love, courage, strength and understanding to ensure it does not persist a lifetime. Life is too short. No minute, hour, or day of the year exists without someone, somewhere, on this earth, thinking about a beloved family member, relative, friend - they though was indestructible - who has died, or become ill. Then our worst fears are realized.

Enjoy those times when the gentle wind blows, and life tastes warm, refreshing, better. And the sound of laughter fills the air.

Merry Christmas to all.

Dedicated to the memory of my mother Tilly Kerrigan (1926 - 2004)

Six Wives (Who's Counting?), My First Day at Work, and "Are You a Disciple or an Enemy?"

I've just married for the sixth or seventh time. I first met Mona in the Louvre in Paris. In fact, it was three days ago. There was mystery in her smile - it didn't have an 'e'. Of course, Mona is not the first female I've met who has cried, or said, "I'm unhappy," as we start to make love. I know some people cry after passionate activity; that's understandable. Frankly, it stifles my performance when a woman sobs at the mere thought of lovemaking, halfway through, or shrieks, "Monster!" at me when in the throes of unfettered lust. It only increases my complexes of failure.

My neighbour, Ivor Whoopingcough, was overwhelmed with Mona's beauty, charm, and intelligence. "She's well-knit that one. It's a delight to watch her ... You must feel happier in bed again ..." His left eye kept winking at his right eye. I hardly knew what to say. I could tell he was thinking hard about Mona. He asked if I was still close to my ex-wife's. When I replied, "Yes. They're all buried in my back garden", he laughed so stupidly, I almost felt alone. He thought I was joking. It's only natural, I suppose.

Ah, my first day in permanent employment. A creature who sat at a desk every day. A man at the elevator said he had been standing on the same spot for two years. He couldn't have been more gloomy. "They take on anybody here. Leave your brain at the door. You're not paid to think, you're paid to do. The funny think," he continued, "is that after a while everyone grows tired and tends to look alike, both male and female. I don't know about you, but I despise dead people". He give me a strange look and stepped into the empty elevator shaft. His last words? "Always check the elevator is in the shaft .........." I never got to thank him.

There are two ways of getting into a rut; sleepwalking, or enduring the misery. I became a hamster on a wheel. Suddenly, I felt old. I became a different person. In the space of a few days I heard stories about affairs, selfishness, insincerity, fraud. The boss had rings under his eyes, a face that turned from pale to red like traffic lights, four strands of hair to cover his baldness, and dashed around mostly with his feet of the ground. Of course, he was screwing his secretary - it was common knowledge - and quite honestly she wasn't up to much.

The place was full of hypocrites who mistakenly sustained a high opinion of themselves. An opinion not shared by their work colleagues (in private), their spouses, or lovers'. Indifference and despair hung like a heavy cloud. I'm sure jealousy kept some staff awake at night. I'm sure it still does. No one who needs release is immune from seeking, or harbouring thoughts of guilty pleasures.

In this concrete environment you become a disciple, or an enemy. The workplace gargles with it. I hadn't the resolve to resign. I wish I had. I was losing something with every hour that passed. Of course, I had yet to acquire the wisdom to stop and question how best to go forward with my life. Perhaps a different path?

Reflections: Who am I? - Indeed, who is anyone to judge the desires and hearts of others' when we know so little of our own?

The workplace has its share of women who sob, and men who speak disparagingly of others', and vice versa. The rituals of scapegoating, and the figurative stoning to death of fellow human beings, will prevail as long as workplaces exist. Unfortunately, human malice and greed has no boundaries.

Anyway, use what energy you have left after work has exhausted you, to seek what little pleasure, and life, you may have left. Sometimes years of servitude count for nothing but the demise of your soul.

My Father, Uncle Hoppy, and a Family Feud

I come from a respectable, humble family. My father is a great game hunter. One memorable afternoon he found a complete Scrabble Deluxe crossword game, a Snakes and Ladders game board and three dancing dice doing the Tango in a Strip Joint in London. He is an excellent horseman and swimmer. Unfortunately, this has resulted in the death of a number of horses due to their failure to execute the Butterfly stroke successfully, or understand the meaning of the "prone position".

My father is tall, attractive, full of vitality, and is at one with nature. His sympathy with birds borders on the remarkable. In fact, he flies south each fall with a flock of warblers he counts as dear friends. Ladies are irresistibly drawn to him and at the last count fifty-three people in our town bear a striking resemblance to him right down to the "mark of the beast" on their foreheads, and the wearing of bizarre Ascot hats. There is a story in the family that he remains traumatised by a bowl of leftover Banana and semolina sheera he seen as a child.

Of course, everyone within a family likes to score points and "family feuds" provide an emotional battleground par excellence. Children must compete with each other for their parents' attention and it is well known that "pecking order" shapes one's personality. One room is too small to contain the egos of a father, mother, brother, sister, and antique vanity furniture. With the rich the feud may be about property, inheritance, money. The poor? Who eat the last chocolate digestive biscuit?"

Anyway, my Uncle Hoppy - who was born with grey hair, and always wears black (even while bathing) - arrived at my father's house one day. Hoppy's hobbies included shovelling manure and disguising himself as Portland Place in London. For some reason an American bison accompanied him everywhere. He treated her like a mistress (?!), dressed her up, and took her on romantic outings. To the bison, I guess, it was love without responsibility.

The trouble started when Hoppy's wife discovered the bison was pregnant. Uncle Hoppy was adamant that while he did not love the bison, he had at last met a creature he truly connected with; someone to hug, kiss, and who talked with genuine conviction about their commitment to individual liberty rather than group-think and articulated what Hoppy also believed: "I'm tired being someone other people want me to be."

Well, as expected, the incident caused a "feud" within the family that surpassed previous family feuds. The news proved devastating. Some family members seethed with rage, some wept, some played Russian roulette with six rounds in their six-shot revolvers, some bitterly quarreled about the consequences for the "good" family name. What name would the offspring be given? Others' sat exhausted by laughter. Yes, laughter. Previous feuds were brought up and dissected like raw meat. Some family members ran out of the house and took to the air never to be seen again! It was clear, however, that Hoppy and the bison felt unease about their future.

A month later Hoppy phoned me. His voice sounded weary but he said they were happy. They were living in a one-room apartment in the south of France. The bison was taking dancing lessons. I remembered she was strong-minded; a creature of action, not words. He added that she wished to become a ballet dancer after the birth. I wished them well. What does it matter, after all, as long as they are happy? Their passion will weary. It always does. However, no-one wishes an affair to end in failure, except the cold of heart.

Reflections: Nobody's life is someone else's life. Those who accept powerlessness, total passivity, cease to exist in a meaningful way and help to create sadness, confusion and pain for others: family, friends, work colleagues.

Some individuals will always find reasons to persecute, judge, sentence and punish fellow human beings. We must face our own nightmares and solve them. Who else will do it?