Saturday 18 December, 1999

Dad called. Said he’s in Taupo on business, and do Eddie and I want to do something?

“We’ve got plans, sorry.” We’re taking the jet skis out on the lake.

“Well, I can’t do anything tomorrow - I’ve got a meeting in the morning, a business lunch, and a cocktail party later on - so I’ll catch up another time.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I don’t really care.

“I’ll call you on my way out.”

That will be a miracle. One I don’t particularly care for.

I’m still praying for a miracle - another miracle. Why is it that the hardest thing in the world is to tell someone that you love them?

Sunday 19 December, 1999

Sundays are very serious affairs to my aunt and uncle; out come the suits and ties, the specially made Sunday dresses, the white kid gloves. Eds looked so uncomfortable in his freshly pressed black suit that I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for myself; I had to wear a ‘nice and modest,’ calf-length, black skirt, with a white blouse and ‘sensible’, flat, black shoes. No loose hair allowed; it had to be manipulated into a neat chignon. I sighed at my reflection in the mirror; I looked like a waitress.

The church service was a solemn, formal occasion. Bor-ing. Boring songs, before boring speeches, read from a boring book, by a boring old priest, who went onto boring Mass, and then boring Communion. It was so dead. Jesus didn’t come to life, the way He does in Emma’s church.