When fun is fraught with too much effort.

 Are you having fun yet? Is this the best time of your life? You’d better put on a corset; otherwise your sides may split. Sometimes I think the end of the year is one long Forced Fun Friday.

 If you are unfamiliar with FFF, this is the drinks session popular in city office blocks to help staff wind down at the end of the week. Everyone is supposed to instantly forget about their troubles and smile, smile, smile. Until their cheeks hurt. The pressure is intensified when five days becomes 365.

 Now don’t get me wrong. I love New Year’s Eve. Whether you go out or stay at home, it’s lovely to watch the fireworks and laugh at the awkward commentary on TV. It is a very fine tradition. But it’s stressful. Going out requires a logistical plan devised by the Israeli army. If you drive, where will you park? If not, how on earth will you get a taxi? Walking home is akin to an obstacle course dodging drunken teenagers, drugged up Gen-Y’s, and couples close to copulating. It really is a wild ride in some parts of town.

 Staying home is fraught with danger too. What if your pet poops itself at the frisson of fireworks? Will your earplugs dull the sounds of rowdy revellers returning home? And who will you share your special moments with? You know those moments. They generally go along the lines of: “I’ve had a terrific/terrible year and I hope 2013 will be the same/different”. I’ve always found it amusing that we chunk time in to bite-sized pieces.

 If something dreadful happens on January 1, it stains the entire year. Herein lies the significance of New Year’s Eve It’s as if we can wash away the horrors of the past. On weekend away years ago I was confronted by a huge sign on the wall of our cottage that said, RELAX. Immediately, I tensed up. It was like someone was pointing the finger at me saying “Oi! You! You look terrible! Shake off that city living and RELAX! Right now!” I felt like a failure. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t de-stress on demand.

 That’s how I feel about New Year’s Eve. Sure, it’s fun. But it’s forced fun. It’s supposed to be one of the best nights of your life. If it’s not, you feel like you’ve missed out on something. Or even that it’s a bad omen for the following year. We might have a little more fun if we lower our expectations. And try to relax.

And on that note – Happy New Year!

These days, everybody wants a piece of you.

They’re a plague of the suburbs: the shopping centre squatters. These are the folk who set up stands outside the stores, selling everything from mineral make-up to car accessories. (Just make sure you don’t mix those up, scouring your skin with a chamois or putting lipstick on the bumper bar.)

 They make a trip to the shops an obstacle course worthy of Sally Pearson. “Madam, I would like to talk about your skin,” one slippery salesman said, before shoving an $80 jar of Dead Sea Exfoliant under my nose. “In the Middle Ages, wine was used as a chemical exfoliant,” I replied brightly. “So I’m off to stick my head in a bucket of chardonnay.”

 Everyone has the right to make an honest living, but how much more space can these shopping centre squatters devote to the almighty dollar? “Quick, there’s one square metre of unoccupied space. Let’s find a tenant!”

 At one Westfield last week, I discovered a pint-sized brow bar. Women were lined up to have stray hairs torn from their heads. Sure, it was fun putting bets on who would cry or grind their teeth, but it was undignified.

 It’s like those billboards being towed by motorbikes. No, I’m not going to sign up to Foxtel because you are blocking my lane! Other sources of advertising annoyance include environmental groups sending out letters by snail mail instead of email, politicians who address their mail-outs to “Dear constituent”, doorknockers at 5pm who ask about your electricity bill, phone-callers at 6pm offering telecommunications deals and pavement charity hustlers who want to garnish your wages.

 Just for one day, I’d like to live without advertising. I’d have to turn off the TV, radio, computer, mobile and home phones, and bin the newspapers. But there are hidden dangers: discount vouchers on the back of shopping receipts, ads inside books for the next exciting instalment and competitions on food labels.

 Maybe the only place to avoid advertising is inside the womb. Research shows the poor little suckers can hear at six months’ gestation. How long before clever companies devise ways to get to the foetus? Mums-to-be could make a few extra bucks by playing a recording of “Coke is life” to their swollen bellies. You may think I’ve gone too far. But free samples of baby formula are given out in maternity wards, in a promising form of advertising to vulnerable mothers.

 Which brings me back to shopping centres.  If I’m struggling with seven shopping bags, I am not in the mood for a sales pitch. These squatters should be evicted.