So obviously the whole daily thoughts thing didn’t work out. But I have a couple of very reasonable reasons as to why I shirked my self-imposed and equally self-indulgent writing responsibilities that really benefit nobody. Number one, I had to make a trip interstate over the weekend, and my Saturday night involved somewhat overly-hydrated chips with strangers, my Sunday morning involved free eggs and the always-fantastic Bad Santa, and my Sunday night involved n RACQ patrol vehicle and a very late homecoming. Number two (this is perhaps the most forgivable of the reasons), it’s Christmas.

And it wouldn’t be Christmas if I wasn’t over-tired and baking at inappropriate hours of the night (it’s currently 11.10pm).

And so, in an act of solidarity with you, dear reader (Phoebe and Mum) I am letting you join in with me, in both spirit and olfactory sensation. And as I have exhausted all creative ability by using alliteration with “writing” and “responsibilities” (I’m very impressive), I can’t be arsed to write an actual column at this time.

So here’s a recipe I prepared earlier just for you.

Maybs clean up the filthy words if you’re showing it to your mum. Or not, if she’s a cool mum. If that’s the case, tell her I have BOTH Richard Gere and Julia Roberts and send her over.

You will need:

2 and a half cups of plain flour (before we start, I adapted some measurements from weights because the scales take too damn long to operate and they cause for a really annoying putting away measure in the Maguire kitchen. So there may be a time when you need a little more flour, or a little less. Usually it is more, because I a pretty godamn gluttonous when it comes to the butter measurement.)

1 cup of brown sugar

5 heaped tablespoons of margarine

1 heaped tablespoon of butter

1 beaten egg

4 tablespoons of golden syrup (this shit is sticky and you can never fully get the full tablespoon off the tablespoon, so I just throw in about an extra spoonful to balance that out. But that is your call to make, you may just find a better way to measure out the syrup.)

2 teaspoons of ground ginger

2 teaspoons of baking soda

half a teaspoon of nutmeg

half a teaspoon of mixed spices

half a teaspoon of cinnamon

an oven

a big bowl

a saucepan of a just bigger than small size

mixing implements

Christmas cheer

A sifter

Trays

Baking paper (because foil is a foolish alternative)

The Home Alone soundtrack to play in the background (Mariah Carey’s or Bing Crosby’s Christmas albums will also suffice. Rod Stweart is fine, but I wouldn’t go for a So Fresh Christmas Hits because they allow any kind of smut to fill the gaps. Sure, they may have Destiny’s Child and maybe ONE classic, but the rest is shithouse and you don’t want that vibe to go into your gingerbread – it will make the biscuits flat, just like the sound of someone killing Santa Baby (someone who is either Eartha Kitt or Kylie Minogue. Kylie actually nails the slutty Chrismtas songs).

-1) I forgot to put this in, until I got to step 11, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to go through and change all the numbers now. Pre-heat the oven. Very important!

1) First thing you’re going to want to do is turn the oven to about 170 degrees Celsius. Now, I have a fan forced oven so perhaps you need to go a little hotter.

2) Crack egg into cup. Ensure egg is not stillborn chicken. Beat unfertilised chicken egg with a fork. Set aside.

3) Grab your big ass bowl and start sifting dat flour into it. Then mix ONE teaspoon of the baking soda. The ginger goes in now too. I always take the opportunity to spice up my life a little by being less than gingerly with the ginger. Meaning, I sprinkle in a little or a lot extra, depending on my mood. I also throw in the spices, the nutmeg and the cinnamon. Obviously, this is a recipe and not a binding contract, so please don’t feel like you have to stick to the ticket – go with the gut if it tells you things. (Actually, this is FILLED with gluten, which means that your gut may just speak to you a lot. I’m concerned. I take NO responsibility for any discomfort you may feel after ingesting this gingerbread.) Beat this gently with a fork until just combined and then make a bit of a well in the middle. Put that to the left (next to the box with everything you own).

4) Now it’s time to break out the saucepan, and by that I mean, grab the saucepan and your butter and imitation butter. Butter up that saucepan boy! Then add the syrup and the brown sugar (I put the butter in first in case the saucepan is too hot and burns the sugar products. That’s not good. The butter forms a gentle, fattening layer of protection, which cushions the blow for the sugars and helps them to succeed in dissolving. I guess the butter is the wind beneath sugar’s wings, which would make butter the Hilary Whitney from Beaches and the sugar would be C.C. Bloom – clearly because Bette Midler’s hair is bright orange for most of the movie so it’s an easy way to remember. This story much less sad than Beaches. I suggest you watch it if you haven’t already seen it.)

5) Gently heat up the contents of the saucepan on a medium/low heat. I turn the dial about a quarter of the way round. Keep stirring that bitch until the butter is all melted and the sugar is dissolved. I want that heart attack-inducing broth to be smooth, you hear!

6) Sprinkle the second teaspoon of baking soda into the saucepan, and turn the heat up a notch or two. I put it up to a whisker off half way (on the lower side of half, not the hotter). Keep stirring, but much more slowly. After a while, the mixture will start to get a little lighter in colour, expand and feel a little airy. This is a good thing. Keep stirring gently until you get to a point where you’re a little nervous to let it continue.

7) Remove the saucepan from the hotplate and pour about half of the mixture into the water-less well you made in you bowl of flour and friends. Then tip in the egg. Stir that for a little bit immediately in case the egg starts to cook in the mixture (this has never happened to me, but I have imagined what it would be like and I imagined a broken Dannielle in it’s aftermath).

8) Pour in the rest of the saucy mix and stir completely.

9) Here’s where you need to use your best judgement as a baker. Sometimes, this is all you need to do, sometimes, the mixture is a little on the runny side and will need more flour. It should form a dough, but it shouldn’t be overly stiff – it should be flaccid enough to feel like a biscuit and not bread (because gingerbread is not really bread – it’s a massive misrepresentation of the product, but that’s what it’s called and I can’t change that). If you can’t grab a bit off without having it run through your fingers, I’d suggest adding more flour. But only sift in a bit at a time. Now is the time for gingerliness.

10) Forget that shit you saw mothers doing on Christmas movies where they roll out the biscuit mix and get fucking flour everywhere. Those women were dickheads. All of them. Because all you need to do moisten your hands with a bit of water and roll clumps of dough into balls and place them on a tray. I know gingerbread men are cute, but fuck me they are way less fluffy and delightful than a ball of the stuff. And if we want to get all feminist here (which I almost certainly always want to do), all we really need from men are the balls anyway.

11) Set your timer for about fifteen minutes. Check after about 12. They should start going a bit brown at this time. I wouldn’t say that you’re aiming for golden brown, but more of a tan. Think about three or four shades darker. You don’t want to go to far because you can’t exfoliate burnt off.

12) Cool the little bastards. Now, if they feel a little soft, don’t be concerned, they should be super spongy. They WILL firm up. Just try not to handle them too much or they will be indented and scarred for life (daddy issues, commitment problems, the works!)

13) … you know what to do.

When you’re loosing your enthusiasm for Christmas, you need to bring in the big guns.

It’s that time of the year when I would be shovelling evidence of the festive season and my inevitably over-thought interpretations of it down the throats of people within a 30 kilometre radius of me via an ever-so-slightly compacted column space in a free publication, however, given my current location and slightly more serious (I did drop a Ghost reference in an intro recently) role, I haven’t had the capacity to do so. This, in combination with overbearing lack of the pressure of an actual enforced deadline and an incompetence to enforce a proper bedtime, my festive writings/rants have been uncharacteristically absent.

Alas, the world has been pardoned of unnecessarily wordy ramblings of a mind reading far too much into insignificant occurrences, utterances or cognitions tainted with a festive slant. But in light of recent uneventful events (watching three Hugh Grant movies in less than 24 hours), I have resolved to do something more useful with my time. And, as I have no real marketable skills and have an inflated sense of importance and self-genius as a result of peaking academically in primary school, I deemed recording the workings of my mind in such a manner that they can be communicated to others on a potentially global platform as a useful use of my time.

But as I began to peck at the keyboard in a satisfyingly noisy manner, it dawned on me that perhaps the current impending festive season hadn’t been exciting enough to blow out of proportion in my mind. Perhaps my literary laziness is matched by the insignificance of which I had attached to the season. It’s not from alack of trying: I spent a good portion of my paycheck on a fake plastic tree and glittery, coloured balls of commercialism, I’ve wrapped gifts, and I’ve even baked a batch of gingerbread for my colleagues despite misplacing my recipe and not having measuring spoons (Jamie Oliver doesn’t need them, but apparently I do). But something feels off this year.

Perhaps a diminished excitement about Christmas is a symptom of passing years, and that, much like getting letters in post, the joy of such an occurrence in our youths is overshadowed by the attached cost and unhappy obligation. Perhaps it is the opposite, and I have only just reached the mental age of a seven-year-old Cindy Lou Who in The Grinch who airs her disenchantment with the festive season via song. Perhaps it’s because Christmas, in my aforementioned new role, is less of an excuse cool the boilers and rest the Linotype, and more of a logistical nightmare due to the rest of society’s selfish tendency to value family time over distributing words and pictures collated on low-quality paper. Perhaps it’s because my only friend close by is my smoothie maker.

But I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with the frightening lack of Christmas movies in my personal collection. Don’t know how it happened, but the only Christmas films I have are Diehard and Die Harder. The great festive flicks in my past are currently in an “entertainment cabinet” more than 300 kilometres away. The first two Home Alones, The Grinch, the few Christmas episodes of Girls of the Playboy Mansion… all the classics are beyond my viewing pleasure.

Without the John Williams musical scores, the bright green Jim Carries and a no-knickered blonde sledding down imitation snow, my heart apparently can’t be merry. The joy of Christmas cannot swell my heart without first having been re-affirmed for a character in a predictable plot with unexplained church bells. But, desperate times call for desperate measures. And in a bid to rid me of my festive indifference, I have resolved to re-ignite my passion for a collection of dates that used to be met with much anticipation and was the bringer of great joy in the most passive way possible: sitting down and staring at my TV, milking my existing DVD collection for any skerrick of festivity. Because if anyone can teach me the true meaning of Christmas, it’s a bare-footed, dirty-singleted Bruce Willis. Yippe-kay-yay.

You is your own worst enemy.

Pressure. David Bowie and Freddie Mercury wrote a song about being under it, and a friend of mine made a Facebook page about it being inside his undies (while the play on words was exceptional, I don’t really know if I liked the definition enough to recommend it to my friends). We’ve been taught that pressure plus time can create diamonds in the right circumstances, but in the wrong circumstances, all you get is wet pants (in case you were wondering what “Undie Pressure” was actually referring to).

There are lots of different kinds of pressure, such as water pressure or the force of a house brought in on a wind from Kansas landing on your torso (I went with a fictional case just to make sure I didn’t jinx myself – I don’t want to die alone in my own house crushed under a ten-year-old pile of stacked newspapers). And while both those kinds of pressure I was referring to can have pretty dramatic outcomes, there’s a another pressure that can produce outcomes that are also not agreeable but rarely involve death (let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, death isn’t the greatest outcome). It’s the kind of pressure that is maximised by the fact that it was applied by yourself. The pressure you put on yourself to achieve something; to make something of your pathetic snivelling self.

While a teacher, friend or inspirational fridge magnet may compel you to do something, the who whom hurts the most when that something wasn’t a thing is yourself. You can get a medi for your teacher, apologise to your friend and throw that smug piece of junk Lorna Jane fridge magnet (I don’t know if they do fridge magnets, but it would make sense because the fridge door is the gatekeeper of fattening food items, and a condescending message printed on a magnetic strip would be an excellent way to remind people to “never, ever, ever, ever, ever give up” on your diet.) But you can’t buy Yourself some “soz brah” frozen yoghurt and call it even, because Yourself is a dweller and holds grudges like you wouldn’t believe (except you would, because you know what You is like).

So when you set yourself a goal and fail to meet it, that hurts. You is reeling and you don’t know how to shut You up. You is so loud, You can’t hear yourself think! You doesn’t hear reasoning that the goal was pointless or that bung-knee is something to worry about or that Better Homes and Gardens had a helpful special on. You will keep reminding you that you didn’t do what was promised to You, no matter what reasons you come up with. This cycle gives you the gripes, but still you find yourself pledging things to Yourself. It might be conquering that pile of laundry, contacting your real estate agent, going to that gym class or responding to that letter. You tell yourself that you’ll do it, but the problem is that while you might have forgotten it during the day, You will remind you of it as the clock strikes bedtime, and you will feel the wrath of Your guilt.

This is something that usually happens on a Sunday. Because nothing has more promise at the beginning while proving to be a complete waste of time quite like a Sunday (well, except Adam Sandler’s recent movies – wow, I’m being mean tonight). The pressure of a Sunday goal can be heavier than a house that miraculously managed to stay in one piece despite being lifted miles into the air to be slammed down into another dimension/delusion – because you have nothing planned on that sacred Day of Rest-wear (because that’s the closest link I could get from “rest” to “pantlessness” or “pyjamas”) why the heck should you not achieve your goals?!

And so, you fall into a trap, because you might set yourself one Original Goal and then to take the pressure off that goal, you set a myriad of others so you’ll feel super accomplished, and if you didn’t happen to achieve the Original Goal, you have many other things to hang your hat on so You’ll take it better when you don’t achieve it. While you might think you’ve fooled Yourself into not caring about failing the Original Goal, You never forget, and You is a relentless bastard. You don’t care that you did the laundry, contacted the real estate agent, went to the gym or wrote that letter, because You knows what you didn’t do.

And You will punish yourself for it with weird stomach sensations and repeated vision of future you suffering from obscenely over-blown consequences as a result of failing to achieve the Original Goal. So eventually, You is so harsh on yourself that you give in, and do a laight-night slapdash job as accomplishing the Original Goal so you can go to bed. Because You don’t care if it was half-arsed, You just wants to tick off the first thing on the imaginary list so you can go to sleep.

Doing things alone can be intimidating.

Raising children solo might be tricky and by the way that bloody red hen was banging on about it, growing grain to make bread is pretty tough too, but nothing is so daunting as the prospect of going to the cinema alone.

For some reason, going to the movies has always been a social activity – because eating buttery cholesterol puffs while staring at a screen and not talking to the other person sounds like a pretty good way to get to know each other if you ask me. Movie theatres have always been pretty intimidating for me, which probably has a lot to do with the type of people who would hang out there in my golden adolescence. The cinema doors were also the main drop-off point for the shopping centre, so you had to face the dirty skegs every time you went “down town”. 13-year-old Dannielle would be just trying to get down to Supré for another raa raa skirt and these drongos would be sitting around with nothing better to do with their lives than stare you down. Turning up alone usually meant they would yell things at you. So the prospect of going to such an establishment alone has always been met with a certain level apprehension.

But on Sunday, I set myself a challenge. I dared myself to go to a movie alone. I’m not usually one for space movies that don’t have Bruce Willis in a starring role, but there was quite a bit of hype going on around one particular film, and even though I had no friends I could physically discus said film with, I do enjoy knowing that people are talking about on The Google. So I made the decision to get myself to a movie theatre and watch it. I never saw myself as the type to be so desperate to see a Matthew McConaughey movie that I would go it alone, but apparently that’s the reality I’m living in.

It’s a pretty big step in my life, so I wanted to document my experience. As always, I was slightly unorganised, and didn’t have time/couldn’t be arsed to log my thoughts before taking off, or to devise a clever way of recording my experiences. And because I was in a public place in which people are usually in groups, I decided to text myself. I’ve compiled those texts here.

There were certain times when I couldn’t actually text myself mostly because these movie people apparently frown on having bright lights while a motion feature is played. So I’ve also compiled the texts I would have sent myself.

My adventure begins when I step through the cinema doors, unflanked by the social weapons of plebs that make me look popular.

3.49pm buys ticket. Points out cashier’s Hunger games pin saying, “do you all have to wear that?” with a monotone delivery. Comes across much ruder than anticipated.

2.50pm the seat selection game begins. Scans theatre for less crowed rows of seats, taking care not to meet the gaze of friended-up movie-goers. Opts for the back row, reasoning that the back seat of a bus was the row for the cool kids and a theatre should be no different. Apparently no one in this town is cool, because the entire row is empty. Picks seat in the dead centre.

The actual (but somewhat doctored for reasons of literary consistency and humour) texts are as follows:

2.59pm opens pump bottle with mouth. Miraculously managed to spill water down tight cardigan sleeve and has to spit out the plastic cover on the sly. I’m undercover here, and I don’t want to attract attention.

3.01pm another lone ranger sits three seats away from me. The back seat is not longer the place for cool kids. Remembers that the back seat was filed with whackjobs in my high school years, such as the guy who would carry two pocket knives to cut holes into the seat where he would shove his Ritalin instead of taking it as prescribed.

3.02pm feels uncomfortable for texting while the obligatory “shut your phone off you bastard” ad plays. Hopes no one cottons on to the fact that I am actually texting myself.

3.06pm remembers the prunes consumed less than two hours ago.

This is the points when the lights darken and the movie begins.

Had I have been able to send texts to myself from my brain without going through the menial tasks of using my fingers and some form of technology, the rest of the afternoon would have unfolded like this:

3.40pm hears people chomping on popcorn, justifies that snacking is appropriate. Pulls one of the four stashed carrots from my handbag and attempts to take the stealthiest bite known to man, in an attempt to make it sound like I was also eating butter-covered slaty puffs.

3.41pm Bite sounds normal, subsequent chewing does not. Instantly recalls that time I was busted sneaking a carrot through security at the airport (I had a pair so scissors in my bag, so I had to go to the back of the line and remove it. When I went thought again, the cranky redhead said “I thought I told you to take all your lotion [my word, not his] out of your bag!” I then try to explain that I don’t have a plastic bag of lotion, while he says “hang on, is that a carrot in there?!” sparking a uproar of laughter amongst every airport staff in earshot, so loud my feeble attempts to defend myself with a “you know it’s a notorious snack” is barely audible.)

3.42pm swallows under-chewed raw vegetable so as not to disturb the other guests.

4.23pm gets a serious fright when something bangs (spoiler alert!) suddenly becomes aware of how alone I am as I try to compose myself.

5.49pm movie finishes, is glad that no one is around because said feature film packed too much into the last 20 minutes with cylindrical living pods completely unexplained, making any utterances in regards to the film quite silly sounding. Looks at coupled people below in attempt to gauge their response.

5.50pm Becomes aware of bros re-entering giggling consciousness, gets up to leave before said evolved males turn their laughter towards the sole sister a few seats away from them.

5.51pm avoids peeing in the cinema toilets to sot avoid the gaze of fellow female movie goers, who may have assumed I was merely putting on a brave face after being stood up rather than being an independent grown-up consumer of pop culture.

6pm nearly wets self fumbling with keys to get inside secure dwelling.

6.01pm realises that solo expedition resulted in neither being pointed at nor being asked when romantic partner was supposed to arrive nor having kids throw rocks. Deems expedition a success.

I’m not an expert on viewing motion pictures in a public place without a friendship group, but from my experience, it’s not too bad. Sure, it can be a little daunting and you may get a feel looks of pity because you didn’t bring someone with you, but then it’s the same story at family gatherings. I guess it kind of feels like when your butt’s a little sweaty and that dampness makes you second-guess whether or not the lining of your uterus has soaked through several layers of clothing – you think the stain of solitude is immediately identified by everyone within earshot, and everyone is whispering about why someone what deign to step foot outside in such a state. But in reality, it’s all in your head and everyone is too busy looking at their phones.