So long, 2009. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

I wasn't sorry to see the back of 2008. 2009's been an even more interesting year. By 'interesting', I mean 'shite'. But the more well-balanced of my friends tell me that it's always a worthwhile exercise to focus on the long term; so here, in the waning hours of the last year of the decade, is my brief, off-the-top-of-my-head inventory of the ten years just passed.

- Y2K-related disasters: 0
- Children: 2
- Houses bought: 1
- Houses sold: 1
- Cars: 6
- Moves: 3
- International moves: 1
- Jobs lost: 1
- Jobs found: 1
- Dirty diapers changed: ~4,000
- Kitchens remodeled: 1
- Kitchens I wish I could remodel: 1 (the current one)
- Countries visited: 11
- Grandparents lost: 1
- Hours commuting: ~6,000
- Blog posts: 111
- Photos: 27,198
- Fender benders: 1 (today)
- Facebook friends: 333

I guess the Noughties haven't been all good, but they haven't been all bad either. I suppose that in any period of time, there will be highs and lows, but on average, things have a way of balancing themselves out.

I hope that you have a happy, healthy and prosperous 2010.




First there was the recession-induced belt-tightening. Then I lost my job. I found it again pretty quickly, but there was a pretty touchy eight-week period.

Christmas Traditions

When a country's been around as long as England has, it's bound to acquire a few traditions which appear, to the uninitiated, somewhat peculiar.

Christmas provides a bountiful harvest of historical oddities. Mince pies sound like a much better idea than they actually are. Wassailing involves making a sacrifice of toasted bread to an apple tree. The Christmas pantomime.

At first glance, the panto seems a quaint but lovable tradition, endured with grudging good humor, much like the monarchy or our Electoral College. In actual fact, everyone looks forward to its arrival, though no one will admit this.

To the untrained observer, a pantomime is just a bad musical, loosely based on a well-known children's story, containing a high concentration of inside jokes and acted out by people who were almost famous once. But, as with so many things, one must look deeper to understand pantomime's true nature. It's actually a shockingly bad musical, loosely based on a well-known children's story, containing a high concentration of inside jokes and acted out by people who were almost famous once.

There are a few stock items which must be included in each and every pantomime. To wit:

- A villain, who must be booed each time he appears on stage

- At least one sob story, for which the audience must express adequate sympathy

- A buffoon who plays the part of a narrator/MC. He greets the audience each time he appears on stage, and the audience must respond appropriately.

- A transvestite

Aladdin is the panto show this year at the Wimbledon Theatre. Having seen one pantomime several years ago, I really felt no compulsion to attend another, despite having gone native with many other things. At least I didn't want to attend until I learned that the genie was to be played by none other than Pamela Anderson. Yes, the Baywatch beauty has arrived in our fair city, in all her peroxide- and silicone-enhanced glory. I'll leave it to the professional critics to dissect her performance, but suffice to say, it included about as much giggling, jiggling and Tommy Lee wisecracks as you'd expect.

As odd as the panto tradition is, though, I must admit that we harbor a few zinging oddities in our house, particularly with regard to the existence of Father Christmas. Not since the Piltdown Man has an utter fabrication been so painstakingly crafted and lovingly upheld. In our house, the Santa presents are wrapped in special paper. Santa has special gift tags. The children must never, ever, be allowed to see either the Santa paper or the tags in our closets. Michele and I had an argument tonight over whose name was to be attached to the Wii - ours or Santa's.

I don't think I'd have such an issue with the old chap, were it not for two things:

1 - I never believed in Santa as a child. My disbelief was a handy thing when, in second grade, Sister Joanne Whatshername told the class the truth about Santa Claus. I exchanged a knowing, dry-eyed glance with the only other non-believer in the class. We were vindicated. And a little relieved.

2 - The fat bastard gets the credit for the good presents. We give our kids socks and underwear, Santa gives them Nintendos and guitars. No wonder he gets a special plate for his cookies.

I have to admit, though, that it's kind of fun, perpetrating this lie. The children clearly enjoy the myth, it does no harm as far as I can tell, and, in bad years, we can call Santa a piker.

I showed Caroline how to check Santa's progress on NORAD's website tonight. She gazed in wonder at the Google Earth mash-up pinpointing Santa's location. She counted down the seconds and called out the locations as he moved from city to city, wide-eyed and mispronouncing Lithuania and Belarus.

Someday she won't believe in Father Christmas. Someday she'll have her heart broken. Someday she'll know all about sex and war and toxic debt.

But not tonight.

Tonight's Christmas Eve. Tonight Santa's coming. Tonight, everything's OK.

Merry Christmas.