Sorry I didn't make it home for Christmas. I miss those mince pies you always offered when I arrived home on Christmas Eve (bought in Tesco's but warmed in the microwave to give it that home cooked feel). I miss the presents with the price tag still on and Dad's impatience for Christmas dinner,which meant sucking on half-cooked Brussels sprouts at 8am.
But since your head was burgled by the memory thief, Christmas at home hasn't been the same. We need you there to bring a reality check to the present opening ceremony by telling your grandchild that “she's a spoilt wee bitch” or enjoying a vodka and orange at 11am while regaling the first time visiting in-laws with tales of how many stitches each of your children gave you on the way out.
I'm spending this Christmas in New Zealand Mam, a country you once said was full of English people running from their lives. Maybe that's what I'm doing too Mam, but something keeps calling me back and I'm trying to understand why.
My first connection was in 1989. I was recently qualified and running from the Siberian recession that was 1980's Ireland. When I rocked up in London, I found that kiwi's were escaping from the same economic despair in their country. We met as mirrored peoples. Our lands were the furthest point in the world from each other and we are both dominated by a bigger neighbour who patronises us while offering employment opportunities and women to play with.
I worked with an Aucklander called Ian and over mid-week beers he'd charm me with stories from the land of the long white cloud. Tales of mountain peaks and crashing surf, of volcanoes shaking the earth while people skied, surfed and threw themselves off bridges while generally pushing the envelope of life. I was smitten, even when a South Islander later told me that like most Aucklanders, Ian had never been South of the Bombay Hills that perch majestically on the Auckland skyline. And so Ian had never visited 90% of his own country. But nevertheless the folk memory was ingrained.
Six years later in 1995, I finally worked up the courage to make the long trip South and I found that if anything Ian had underestimated things. In the Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy, the narrator meets the guy who designs planets. He pulls out the sketches for Earth and says that he is particularly proud of Norway. “I spent hours on those fjords” he said, “But the best part was I was able to copy them when I came to designing the South Island in New Zealand”.
But I suspect that God made New Zealand as an original and then threw away the mould. It is so spectacularly beautiful that it becomes almost overwhelming. And the best part is that through a serendipitous combination of distance and inadequate economic opportunity there are not too many people. And yet there are just enough to brew fantastic beer, cook delicious food and drive buses to get you from one jaw-dropping piece of scenery to the next.
I've been back here so many times since that the immigration people have me registered on their computer as a groupie. I'm in the North Island this time in a picture post card sea-side town called Pauanui. You wouldn't like it Mam. There are no pubs and nobody smokes. But you would love the beach. You were always a sun worshippers Mother, which makes it unfortunate that you spent all your life in Ireland. I could picture you lying on the beach here, finishing off a couple of Mills and Boons novels each day while sending Dad up to get you a fresh drink every ten minutes.
But it wasn't to be Mam, You have only the company of the black slanted Cooley Mountains this Christmas and whatever memories the Scrooge of Alzheimer's has indulged you with. I hope at least they fed you well in that home for the bewildered. You'll be pleased to know that I ate well as an Irish Mammy, you are the only person in the world that thinks I'm underweight and need a good feed.
I even helped out with the cooking on Christmas Day Mam, news that will no doubt shock you into disbelief, if your mind was not already programmed now to disbelieve everything. Christmas dinner is very different here because of the climate. Unfortunately the only element they keep from your traditional feast is the piece I never liked. In our house everyone was allowed to turn their nose up at element of the Christmas dinner. My brother couldn't stand Brussels Sprouts, my sister didn't like Turkey and I was adverse to the ham.
Pig was the centre-piece of this New Zealand Christmas but luckily there were many other alternatives to sooth the taste buds of the fussy eater. Being able to eat indoors or outdoors provides for greater scope in menu planning. We had the ham and boiled potatoes but also barbecue cooked prawns and copious salads of intricate design. Most New Zealanders are serious foodies it seems and take the responsibility of living in a land of natural plenty with earnest enthusiasm. Cook books are a favoured Christmas present here in the same way as bottles of Whiskey are in Ireland. Even old farmers with hands like shovels and weather beaten faces, can be found buried in Jamie Oliver's latest publication on Christmas morning.
It's a long way from the boil everything style of cooking that we used to enjoy Mam. But I'm adapting like you always taught me to do.
By the time Christmas evening came around, the Irish and the Kiwis finally found something in common. We had tested and tasted too much and the top buttons of everyone's trousers suddenly became undone. We slumped into the comfort of deep armchairs and surrendered ourselves to sleep.
I hope you might be doing the same Mam. Happy Christmas and difficult as it may be, I hope you're thinking of me as much as I am thinking of you.
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