"I always thought you were an only child.”

“Why?”

“Well, you just seem like you’ve never had to share anything. Ever.” So said Dreamy Architect Housemate as we sat in the college library, with me hissing at anyone who tried to work at the same table as us.

It’s true, I can be a mite selfish at times – I resent anyone sitting in the same train carriage as me, I hoard library books unnecessarily (whatever subject you do, I have that book you need) and I once killed a man for a purse of gold coins and a slug of whiskey. Actually, that last one is a line from the Irish folk songs which Dissolute Would Be Novelist Housemate has been playing incessantly in the kitchen since he rediscovered his Celtic heritage this week, mainly through boozing. But the point stands that I am a miserly, beautiful, self-centred witch and perhaps I should learn how to Give in time for December 25th, and the annual Beale family screening of It’s A Wonderful Life, when Mother eats her one chocolate of the year and Father weeps like a baby leprechaun. After all, if I don’t improve, no one will buy me classy gifts next Yuletide, as I can’t get away with “I.O.U. One Half Hour of Quality Time (Terms and Conditions Apply, Subject to Availability)” vouchers again.

 I decide to consult Dreamy Architect Housemate on why he is such an unnecessarily Good Person, and how I can become one too. He muses on the question, and decides his unnatural level of friendliness is down to a childhood of mild beatings, a constant feeling of Guilt, taking drugs like candy, and mainlining tea. He also cites his relatively low stress levels as an aid in his freakish niceness. While he does have to model 3-D abattoir designs on the computer until six in the morning, he has to make few decisions which affect other people, unlike others we know who are college Presidents, directors or conductors, and use up all their humanity and kindness in meetings, rehearsals and concerts. “And all you really do is eat toasties” he concludes, “so you could be a lot less evil than you are.” “But I have to make decisions which affect others” I protest. He makes tea sceptically. “I have to decide whether to update my blog, and how often to feed my Tamagotchi (age: seven years, eight months, six days and counting). He shakes his head sadly, like a wise old handsome owl. I am in awe of his chiselled intelligence, like the Dalai Lama in Ashton Kutcher’s body. I touch his thigh hopefully. He sighs, shuffles his chair away, and says, “Hands above the table. Don’t make me get the librarian again.”   

But enough. All this term I have wrestled with my sins on the pages of this publication – I have tried to be less slothful, lustful and wrathful (amongst other things). While I may not have fully succeeded in my quest for betterment (I enjoy sleepy, angry lust too much) I refuse to feel guilty about a little selfishness. I may be a jealous brat. I may be able to inhale three boxes of Maryland chocolate chip cookies without pause. I may fool myself into thinking I’m Mrs Robinson and shamelessly attempt to corrupt one of my best and oldest friend’s unwitting seventeen-year-old brother. I can happily sleep until three on a Sunday afternoon, eat a sustaining bowl of Shreddies, then retire back to bed to watch Belleville Rendezvous on my laptop and snooze until bedtime.

And I may just be quite defiantly proud of all of these things. But I am essentially alright. I have chosen the ten or so people I like in this world and I’m alright to them, and will be loyal for life. To everyone else I say a very Merry Christmas, but don’t expect a card, and stay out of my corner of the library.