Slugs, samplers and Santas

Christmas and the silly season is upon us. I was sitting at my computer sending messages far and wide, when I felt something on my foot. At first I thought it might be the cat licking me in an attempt at getting me to open the treat box. But no, as I looked down I saw a huge slimy thing on my foot. My first thought was a leech had decided to snack on my tasty blood. But then I thought 'Silly woman, this is not Africa. There are no leeches.' I got rid of the slug ... which is what it was. Then I Googled leeches in New Zealand and amazingly enough, yes, there are blood sucking leeches here. Who knew? Anyhow I escaped with my life and limbs intact. But as I tracked the slug trail back to its source, I found something else that was fascinating. The slug had slithered up the water pipe in the bathroom, up the side of the shower and down the other side, to finally scare me witless in the dining room. As I cleaned off the slug juice, I saw that it had cut right through the lime scale residue on the shower door. I have scrubbed and squeegied this particular door every single day of my sojourn in this house ... and yet the lime scale remains. I have bought specialist tools that the adverts promise will having amazing results. No, the film remains. I have used bicarbonate of sodium and lemon juice ... no change. I have bought toxic chemicals and yet this lowly slug has beaten them all hands down. Well slugs don't actually have hands so what would that be? Apparently it is called a sole and foot fringe. So this simple slug and its sole have scrubbed this pristine mark down the glass door. I wanted to go out and collect a dozen slugs and line them up on the top of my shower door ... and let them do their magic. But yuk, yuk, yuk. No. Is it the sole that did the scrubbing or is it something in the chemical make-up of the slug juice that removes the gunge? Could I market the product? Or would the SPCA have me up for cruelty to non-vertebrates? Not worth taking the chance. But next time a slug enters my home, I might just put it to work on the rest of the glass surrounds. I will have to invest in a pair of rubber gloves before I do this ... or maybe not. In the spirit of love and all things Christmas, maybe I should liberate the slug back into the garden without using it as my shower slave? Yes, that is a plan I can live with.

A dear friend gave me a Christmas wall hanging this year. Old fashioned pictures of Santas. She had sewn on a few tokens of love and Christmas trees on the hanging and it looked lovely. Now, people in my family know that I am not blessed with the sewing gene. I have great aunts who had their embroidery work displayed on ancient church altars in England and a Grandmother that could work wonders with a piece of material. She made my wedding dress which I treasure, even though I no longer fit into it. But me, well I don't do well with embroidery. My mother and grandmother both muttered things like 'dog's breakfast' and 'disaster' when I showed them my work. And we all remember the time I offered to make my mother a patchwork quilt and she declined because of my lack of sewing skills. But I have always wanted one of those Victorian samplers to hand down to my descendants. Sadly I cannot go back and ask the Eames sisters to stipulate in their wills that I was to be the recipient of their beautiful crafts. I decided that today was the day that I would create my own sampler. I would embroider those Santa pictures and hand down my own heirloom to my grandkids. I imagined in 100 years time, someone would ooh and aah over my handiwork. They would have this wall hanging framed and revered in their home. Okay, a bit too much dreaming and not enough realism. And do you know what, I am having such fun. It still resembles a dog's breakfast if you look too closely, but who cares. Heirlooms are meant to be a sample of the past handed down to the future. As someone said recently, 'I am perfect at being imperfect.' Yes and it makes me just that little bit more normal. Who wants perfection? Not me.

Another Christmas project was supposed to be a 12 days of Christmas using my own family as inspiration. On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me a Parson in my Family Tree. But I cannot for the life of me find the picture of my great grandfather in his ordination robes. I know I had it somewhere, but it is hiding and refused to be found. On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me Two dear parents ... in my Family Tree. Three authors. Four lovely grandchildren... five gorgeous children ... and on and on. But Great Granpa Henry Robert Alkin you have stymied my whole inspiration by concealing your photograph. I have soldiers going to war and great grandfathers riding bicycles, I have judges and lord and ladies ... so much fun. I have so many fantastic people to choose from and have I let my lack of photographic evidence slow me down? No. I knew that Henry Robert had an older brother that was an Anglican minister in Australia and I have seen many photos of him through the ages online. But Google failed me. The photos have all vanished. I thought, 'What the heck is wrong with these two brothers not wanting to be part of my Christmas ditty?' Have they sat down in the realm beyond the veil of death and decided to boycott my efforts. Let us just hope that they never get together with the Eames sisters of Fareham and sabotage my embroidery efforts too. Now that would really squelch the Christmas spirit right out of me. I am hanging by a thread (sorry about the sewing pun) anyway, as I negotiate the first Christmas since my husband, Barry has died. I have played Christmas carols and bought gifts ... I have planned menus and made table cloths ... but the disappearance of my religious ancestors is a worry. Come on men, step up and give me a little respite. I am appealing to Barry to go and have a good chat to those Alkin brothers and get them to reveal the hiding place of their photos. Sooner rather than later would be good.

This weekend I plan to make Koeksusters (a South African dessert) with my son. I will attend a Church meeting where my grandchildren will sing carols ... I might even buy myself some of those Christmasy earrings. Barry loved wearing his Santa ties each December and now that he is no longer here, I have to take up the mantle and be loud and proud with some wacky decoration on my person. But as my face still resembles a plague victim, I really do not want to bring any attention to my face. Maybe a Christmasy dress or necklace. Who knows? And time is getting shorter by the day for me to make my deadlines. May your Christmas be bright. May the nuts in your family tree be entertaining and may you feel the love all around you. Don't get into debt and treasure the things that really matter the most .. family and friends. Think of those who are no longer with us and remember the good and great times you shared and forget any of the bad. Be kind to the stranger at the door ... unless he has evil intentions. And spread joy wherever you can.