I dread to think when I last went through that ritual.
As I have previously explained, the point of confession was lost on me as a child.
I came up with the same "sins" every time for whichever long-suffering priest was sitting behind the grille, would say my penance prayers and then cheerfully go forth to repeat the sins before my next confession.
I wondered if the community Christmas get-together was really the time for my confession, particularly since he was busy being the master of ceremonies.
But our paths do not often cross and, if kids are expected to reflect on whether they have been naughty or nice, I felt I could take a small step in that direction too.
My confession followed one of my sons telling me recently he had one to make.
My heart sank.
What the heck was coming next? Had he run amok somewhere? Was a court appearance pending?
No, he wanted to tell me that in his teenage years when he had arrived home with a hideous biscuit-coloured Crimplene suit, complete with wide lapels and flared trousers, he had lied about its origin.
He had told me it belonged to the MC, the father of one of his friends.
That made sense. He would have been of the right era to have owned such a monstrosity and it would certainly have fitted him better than my son.
Initially, the suit was worn to a disco, I think, but every now and then it would be dragged out for some ritual ridicule at a family gathering to see who looked worst in it.
(For those unfamiliar with Crimplene, it was invented in the United Kingdom in 1959 by a chap trying to make an artificial fabric which was not itchy. He did his experimenting by boiling two yarns in the home pressure cooker. His wife’s dubious reward for that kitchen invasion was getting to wear the first Crimplene frock. Wikipedia tells me people later complained about Crimplene retaining body odour and that it was subject to surface pilling. I always wondered about its safety in its heyday, given the high levels of smoking then and how readily it melted when cigarette ash dropped on it.)
Some considerable time after the suit’s appearance, I met the MC at a social gathering and apologised for not returning the suit to him.
When he vehemently denied all knowledge of such a get-up, I was not convinced.
Uncharitably, I later told anyone who would listen I reckoned he just did not want to admit to such a fashion faux pas.
I could claim I was influenced by the fact he is named after that famous denier of Jesus, but that would be another sin.
The truth of the matter was the suit had been stolen from a clothing bin.
The MC had the good grace to laugh at me confessing my uncharitable pronouncements about his denial.
The thing is I am rather prone to uncharitable thoughts which too often find their way out of my head through my mouth.
On any occasion (including Christmas) I can be relied on not only to drop a clanger but then add to it, even though I know the sensible thing would be to shut up.
It is possibly the only thing I have in common with the current prime minister.
There was an example from a press conference earlier this month when the local body rates cap bands were announced.
A reporter asked if the PM would be comfortable with councils dropping their pledges to pay the living wage.
The PM should have stopped after saying these were decisions for councils. But no.
"I mean the bottom line is, you know, we subscribe to a minimum wage. That’s what we — is the law of the land. And if, you know, if their council, for goodness’ sake, decide they want to put extra money into that, that’s a decision for them. I would have thought it might have been better into something else, you know, but that’s a choice that they’ll get to make. But as long as they’re within the bands."
When we know the minimum wage increase from April is less than the current inflation rate, and the PM never has to worry about making ends meet because he is sorted, the uncharitable me is surprised he didn’t say "let them eat Christmas cake".
PS: My two loyal readers who have followed my Christmas tree tribulations may appreciate the latest solution — a small pine nut tree I have kept alive for two years now. I may not live long enough to ever harvest anything from it, but at Christmas it’s all about the hope.
• Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
