Charity begins at school

When it comes to people in need, the less fortunate or the next round at the pub – sometimes all three at once – Husband throws money around like confetti. It’s my excuse (to myself) for being a tight arse. Someone has to show restraint or we’ll end up being the ones needing help. I keep that firmly in mind while being chased with clipboards, bailed up by the blue-polo-shirted people in Pitt Street Mall or asked for donations by charities with such odd names I can’t believe they’re actually real. I’m not completely heartless. I’m very committed to my Boystown lottery tickets (loving the Currumbin pad this month). And I put a dollar in the Salvos bucket on Monday. But can the guys with water in dirty spray bottles please stop throwing themselves on my windscreen? With Sprog 1 entering year 3, I’ll need to work on my community spirit. Year 3 parents are in charge of fundraising at our school. Last night, I got a preview of what’s in store when we held an open-air cinema and market thingy. I was supposed to be on the glow-stick stall between 6.30 and 7pm. I ended up being on the glow stick stall from 4.30pm to 9pm because most of the volunteers DIDN’T SHOW UP. The glow sticks themselves weren’t terribly popular, we have about 500 leftover for next year. But the flashing spiky ball necklaces went gangbusters. Sold out of them by 7. Husband was supposed to be on the sausage sizzle from 7 to 7.30pm. But he missed his bus. In true Husband spirit he made up for it by pitching in left, right and centre until clean-up time. I should be feeling very virtuous this morning about my contribution, but I don’t. I’m just mildly headachy and a teeny bit down (still). I’m putting it down to guzzling chardy I’d hidden behind the flashing heart necklace display. I woke up this morning ready to declare a moratorium on alcohol for a few days, then remembered we’re having drinks at the neighbours’ house tomorrow. Can’t not drink at those. But today and Monday have been officially declared alcohol-free. After New Years’ Eve I’m giving it up entirely. Well, for at least a week. It’s going to be a miserable old time after New Years’ Eve. No food, no Diet Coke, no grog. I’d give me a wide berth if I were you.        

TONIGHT’S MENU: It’s been so long between home-cooked meals, I was determined to impress you by making bahrat duck. But Husband has convinced me to go out for Indian instead. It didn’t take much.