Originally published in The Clifton Courier, December 20, 2017

* Obviously, this was written just before Christmas. It was a time when I was absolutely knackered, dragging my half-decaying carcass along the ground to the finish line, leaving a trail of gloopy misery and dignity as I edged towards the end of the year. Perhaps you’ll be able to pick up on that. 

I think I have a problem.

I know what you’re thinking: “well that’s been obvious from the outset, Dannielle – the whole town is quite aware that you’re an absolute mess and this column is doing nothing to help the situation”.  Yes, it’s well documented that I have a whole range of problems. There’s my issue with the ironic over-popularisation of nuggets, financial decision-making, that whole overthinking thing I do, committing to not vomiting and, actually, any kind of commitment at all*.

* I had plenty more, but I felt that five problems was enough for a short column in an otherwise cheery pre-Christmas paper.

But now it seems I have another one to add to the already lengthy list.

I have a new kind of problem and, just like this column, it’s conveniently Christmas-related.

This problem is about my emotional attachment to a ham.

No, this isn’t going to be a heart-warming message of peace and goodwill as a way to cap off the year; it’s 600 words about ham. Sorry, but if you want something deep and meaningful from me, I’m going to need a bottle of Jameson and some ginger ale*.

* I have to admit, this line was largely me fishing for free drinks. It did not achieve the desired result, so I’m going to have to really lay it on thick before the Clifton Show rocks around. I mean, the XXXX bitters go pretty cheap anyway, but a free drink’s a free drink. And, in all honestly, I actually prefer to go with a rounds-based system when I’m out. But it would be nice to snag a free coldie as proof that someone reads my damn dribble.  

I was given a Christmas ham and it was perhaps one of the best things that has ever happened to me.

This statement is a concern. I mean, the fact that I now have sole custody over a large hunk of dead pig is a positive thing. I have a tote bag (I bought it from Cobb and Co and it says “totes”) that is full of meat. If I’m hungry, all I have to do is grab a knife and slice off a hunk of pork.

Yes, this is fortunate. But should it be the best part of my year? Should “this ham is one of the best things that has ever happened to me” be a sentence I can truthfully write? I don’t need to see a psychologist to know that this isn’t a good sign. Heck, even an internet-certified life coach would red flag this.

Secondly, I’m becoming worryingly over-protective of the ham. I’m not yet at the stage of sleeping next to the fridge with a dagger in my hand, but I wouldn’t put it past me.

I was telling a friend how I planned on “not sharing it with any bastard”. Pretty sure he thought I was joking. Then I started asking about how best to deter my people from sneakily hacking at my personal ham.

I began to practice my warning, starting off with “look guys, it’s Christmas time…” My friend expected me to finish the sentence with someone along the lines of “…so in the spirit of the season, let’s all share this delicious ham”. But that’s not what came out of my mouth.

Instead, I thought of words to the effect of: “…we’re all poor as heck from buying presents and we can’t afford groceries so that ham is my main source of protein* – now keep ya grubby mitts off it”. Not exactly the most benevolent of sentiments.

* Not a joke. Meat is spency. I only hope that I have loaded up on enough iron while I was home to get me through to the next pay day. 

This is tied in with my third ham-related problem: I have an overwhelming desire to the whole thing all by myself. I am flying home for Christmas, so it has to be gone by Friday. I mean, I could demolish a “giant” schnitzel just as fast my smug former colleague who apparently can to eat lots because he plays sports (I even ate the leftover chips off my other co-worker’s plates to really show him up) but that’s a lot of pork for one person to eat in five days. I’d literally be sweating brine; I may even require hospitalisation.

But still I want to finish it off on my own.

I don’t know what’s the most worrying motivation behind this: greed, stinginess or the personal validation I would get from telling people I ate a whole leg of ham. Neither option is good.

What started out as a magnificent gift has become a burden. I have the weight of a metaphorical leg of ham on my chest.

So as I come to my already over-stretched word limit, I’ve yet to come up with a solution. I’m usually able to pull some kind of conclusion out of somewhere by this point in the column, but I’ve got nothing. It’s the end of the year. I’m tired. I need a break.

And so the only thing that’s coming to mind now is for me to try to sneak a leg of ham on the plane as carry on luggage*. If you don’t see me at Christmas Eve mass, it’s because I’ve been detained. Merry Christmas, everyone!

* I decided against smuggling the ham under my clothes as a fake pregnancy belly and left it in the fridge. In the end, I became so sick of the ham that even contemplating it now is a thought that curdles in my stomach like hot sushi and room-temperature milk. I left a note pleading for my housemate to take the ham, but when I returned to this stinktown I opened the fridge to discover my salty nemesis waiting for me, mocking me from within its calico cloak. Its skin had hardened and withered, with the contrast between the once succulent hunk of meat I’d left behind and its current form reminiscent of the before and after mugshots government bodies use to scare people from trying methylamphetamines. 

The allure was gone. The curse broken. I knew that I had to finally rid myself of that briney demon forever. I could no longer allow it to haunt my fridge or my mind.

I threw it in the bin.