An old taster

Here's an example of the column from my day's as Joondalup's columnist:

It is not without a small sense of pride that I announce to the readership at large that I am, in a small way, the mother of the Messiah. Yes, Oliver Christian (wasn’t that a forethought, eh?) Jake took a starring role last week during Henry’s final chapel service of the year, as no less than Jesus himself. Now of course it’s a long time since I could claim to be anything approaching the Virgin Mary, so I handed that role over to a pretty classmate of Henry’s, Vikki, who scooped my fifth-born out of my arms during a dry run of the performance with confidence and elan beyond her 13 years. “Oh he’s so cute,” she said, instantly winning me and Matthew over.  “And he doesn’t even smell.” 

As biblical quotes go, there’s a reason why that one probably didn’t make Luke’s final cut during the editing of his gospel.We made our way to the chapel and I was secreted behind a little screen while Henry’s class finalised their presentation of the nativity to the rest of the middle school. 

Henry was fetchingly dressed as a shepherd – well, I assumed it was a shepherd. He was wearing a tea towel on his head which is usually school-speak for ‘those who tend sheep’. He was partnered by the tallest boy in the whole world and a shorter chap, which gave this trio of goatherds a rather comical air. There was, as far as I could see, only the one Magi – perhaps the other two kings were in detention. Mary had by now sprouted a fully formed pregnancy beneath her blue tabard, while Joseph merely looked bored and not a little nervous, all at the same time.

Oliver, meanwhile, pro that he is, took it all in his stride. Asleep. For the first time in his eight short weeks of life, my baby was playing ball and sleeping like a baby in my arms. I imagined that I looked like one of those Renaissance masterpieces, a holy glow emanating from behind the screen as I cradled my infant. On reflection however, there aren’t that many depictions of Mary and the Christ-child with the mother in Target jeans and the baby in a pair of natty little dungarees and stripey socks, but never mind.

Henry’s teacher kicked off proceedings with a solemn prayer and it all went swimmingly. The shepherds got a laugh when they made haste to the manger, after Mary had nipped off, stage left, like a galleon, full with child, only to return seconds later with a two-month-old tousle-haired bub, fully dressed and expelling wind gently.

There was an amusingly monotone rendition of Away in a Manger to be endured, some more imaginative prayers along the lines of ‘Bless those who are affected by the credit crunch’ and it was over.

This novel use of a pupil’s sibling certainly got the collection of pubescent youth of north Perth’s attention, this actual baby in their midst. Henry afterwards became the most popular child ever for at least the whole of lunchbreak, as girls came up to him, interrupting his sandwich and juice to ask if Jesus was indeed his brother.

Back home, Oliver reverted to type and punctuated the rest of the afternoon with a full display of his lung capacity for the whole neighbourhood to enjoy. As we contemplated our son’s brief brush with deification, walking for the hundredth time, backwards and forewards rocking our howling infant, it occurred to me that after all, he’s not the Messiah, he’s a very naughty boy.

Welcome to my world

It's like putting on a comfy pair of shoes, writing under the Domestic Bliss umbrella again after a bit of a hiatus. It all started off for me at the Bath Chronicle, where I was tasked to write a weekly column about my family life, then with a mere four children and husband. Then we upped sticks and moved to Perth, Australia, baby number 5 on the way and I managed to persuade a kindly editor to take the column on again. Perhaps it was my enormous girth - then 36 weeks pregnant with an enormous child to be - which made him agree to it, whatever, I wrote again, this time including the star child, Oli's arrival in September 2008, for the northern suburbs readership of Perth.
Then the GFC happened, through no fault of my own. Well I say that but perhaps my reckless Ikea spending in 2006 may have kickstarted the whole global collapse, it's hard to say.
And the column was sadly shelved thanks to lack of funds. Now papers around the world have to rely on journalists already accepting a pittance for their services to write columns, rather than pyjama-wearing freelancers who swallow up budgets greedily.
So after all that, and finally getting out of the pyjamas in favour of creased clothes from K-Mart, I have rejoined the working world and now edit the hilarious titled Mining Chronicle. It's like the Bath Chronicle, but about mining, not so much about Bath.
And this is my first blog ever, and like a dog who's buried a bone somewhere but can't quite remember where, I've come back to my old scratching ground - Domestic Bliss - which is basically all about living in the middle of a pretty noisy, chaotic family of five kids, two cats, a swimming pool (new addition since Bath) and husband.
So do let me know what you think - and whether you'll be joining me for the ride.