Christmas cards epitomise what external life tends to sink into when it isn't awful. Yes I know, they are jolly and benign, how mean to object to them. But can't we do better than this, sending each other inane wishes inside cards depicting merry Santa Clauses and twee winter scenes? It seems not, but I'm not the one to break rank and be resented, and what is there to replace them with? How much do people really enjoy Christmas? Yet even if they don't enjoy it as much as they think they do, or as much as they are told they should, or as much as a million and one people 'wish' them to, who would want to replace it with just another few days of regular living? Such is the morass of ordinary life, that sitting slumped and stuffed in an armchair with television and relatives, wearing a paper crown, seems like a treat to look forward to.
It is at times likes these, more than at times of struggle, that my feelings turn to desires to escape, to take life's potential out of this failed project and start afresh.
And so here I am, Deborah, reborn, emerging from my egg.
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