home for christmas

Christmas used to be just another day in my childhood. We didn’t celebrate, except for one year when my brother staged a concert at home with our cousins: dancing, singing, and gifts. It was chaotic and fun, and for a moment it felt like we belonged to something festive. Then it ended. That was our one and only Christmas party.

Years later, I found Christmas again through friends. Their meals, their traditions, and the kindness of being invited in gave it the shape I’d always imagined, even though I still felt like a guest.

In time, I came to understand what sits at the heart of this season: the birth of Jesus Christ. I met a partner who held the same faith, and together we laid a foundation anchored in it. Christmas no longer felt borrowed. It was something I could share with my loved ones, and it finally felt like home.

berry nervous picker

Nothing makes me second-guess myself more than the task of picking strawberries. I just watched a lady grab a punnet without even checking or comparing it to twenty others - imagine having that kind of carefree attitude. Meanwhile, I spend ten minutes analysing and still never leave the supermarket feeling confident in my choice.

the final wave

The last time I saw my neighbour, Steve, was the day before we left for our Europe trip. He was outside watering his garden, and I gave him a quick wave as I walked past with the dogs. We didn’t get to talk, although I’d said we’d catch up when I got back. It felt like there would always be time for that.

While I was away, I sent him a message asking if he could take in a parcel left at my gate. Instead of Steve replying, his son wrote back to tell me that his dad had passed away suddenly.

My favourite memory of Steve was last December when he set up one of those laser light projectors that scatter colours across the house and garden, just to surprise the girls when they came outside after dark. I wondered if that might become a new neighbourly Christmas tradition. I guess not.

Since he’s been gone, the street has felt different. I still look over when I play fetch with Anakin, expecting to see him in his backyard or working in his shed. Now the shed door is closed, the windows are covered, and a stillness lingers where there used to be life. It’s a reminder of how easily familiar moments can slip away.

pop martian

I saw a news segment about the Labubu craze, and the reporter said this obsession might be linked to mental illness. Rude, but not entirely wrong.

I’ve diagnosed myself with this sickness. Blind boxes are psychological warfare: tiny cardboard slot machines. Pop Mart knows exactly what they’re doing with the limited stock and surprise releases. Yesterday I was at the store when they dropped the Exciting Macarons series and later won two raffle draws for the chance to buy the Pin from the Love series. Of course, I bought a Powerball ticket to see if the lucky streak would continue.

The dopamine hit is addictive: the suspense, the reveal, the little victory. The joy is pure, uncut serotonin. And like any good addict, I keep chasing a bigger high. I tracked down the Forest Fairy Tale Labubu, which was available only overseas. I got my sister-in-law, my enabler with reseller contacts, to lock it in, and then had my cousin smuggle it in from Vietnam like contraband. 

Maybe it is a kind of neurological disorder. But at least it’s cheaper than my Hermès habit.