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2009 in Photographs from Laura Jane Williams on Vimeo .

I suppose it is only natural to reflect at this time of the year. I was reminded recently of my time over the summer, teaching. "What will you tell your English teacher you learnt at English camp this summer?" I asked Andrea, the class clown. "That Pamela Anderson has very big watermelons!" he replied. I looked at him. "And can you make that into a comparative for me?"

For Mama: The white dog sits wide-eyed before his mistress pleading he stares begging for love or a biscuit watching her until she looks back and says to him “Oh, fuck off.”

Well I suppose we can conclude that I'm not exactly the maternal type. "Your hair is funny," The Child told me as we sat watching Jonny Depp on the telly. I was only half-interested because, as mentioned, we were watching Jonny Depp. And I like Jonny Depp very, very, much. Jonny, Jonny, Jonny... Mmmmm. I vaguely asked her, "Funny how?" but I won't lie. I wasn't even uninterested- I was actively disinterested . Like, the way Mama is disinterested in historical fiction. She once got so fed up with Papa reading Wilbur Smith novels that when they finally took a holiday where his nose wasn't buried in a spine for ten days she beamed as she told me on their return, "And do you know what? HE NEVER TURNED A PAGE." I'm talking disinterested in the way that Britney Spears appears to be with personal hygiene (I wouldn't take her up on the offer of a swig from her Diet Coke- would you?) or disinterested in the same sense as Iran is with sharing

I had obviously name dropped some exotic location I had once visited, or somebody famous I had once met, or even that yesterday I had Mexican for lunch because mum laughed when I finished whatever it was I was saying over morning coffee and biscuits. "Gosh? Haven't you done so much in your sweet, short life?" she said, in genuine wonder. "I like to get around, I suppose," I replied. All went quiet. Finally, she exclaimed, "You're like... you're like a slag of the world!" Thanks Mama.

My brother Jack and I are both home for Christmas. He is a very good Baby Brother. And I mean that as much in a I'm-so-pleased-we-are-related-by-blood-forever-and-ever sort of a good as much as I do in terms of being the sort of good-at-fulfilling-the-cliche-of-how-younger-brothers-are-supposed-to-act good. I think boys are just designed that way. No matter how old we get, some things never change. The rule of 'Shotgun' to decide who rides upfront with Mama is still practiced. We have been known to continue to compete over who can fasten their seatbelt the fastest; operate on a 'one cuts and the other other chooses' basis when sharing any sort of bakery item to ensure that that is fair is indeed, fair; and we still repeatedly declare ourselves the parental favourite in a recapitulated argument that follows the form, "I am," "No, I am," "Noooooo, I AM," etc. For quite some time Jack has referred to me as 'Shieeda', in reference t

Lunchtime. Chez moi. Verbose Auntie: You guys eat so well over here. There is always such great food on the table. Mama: Yeah, we've got a nice little arrangement going on. Dad cooks, I wash up, and she (gesturing with her fork to me) eats.

Sat around the dinner table, we were talking about Verbose Auntie's daughter-in-law and her birth. Verbose Auntie: But apparently she had to have a Cesarean because of the wrong positioning of her pevis, or some such. I don't really understand. Mama: I had a Cesarean with the second one. Not the first time around though. Me: Why did you have a Cesarean with Jack but not me? Mum: He had a big head. (Thinks for a minute). Mind, you've got a massive head too, haven't you? Huge! There is nothing like installing a bit of confidence into your children, is there?

"Hey! Mama shouts to me in the kitchen, "Listen to my horoscope for today!" "You must contend with the irritating behaviour of someone who seems to think it's very clever to be annoying. Leave them to their on devices and they will soon get bored, and hopefully stop doing it." When she finished reading she guffawed for a VERY LONG TIME and then said, "So even Sally Brompton knew you were going to piss me off today!"

"It'd be like giving a donkey strawberries," Mama declared- in response to what I cannot quite remember now. Papa turned from around the workbench and sure enough, was just putting a chopped strawberry onto his rice pudding. He indicated to his bowl and smiled at Mama. "Are you calling me a donkey then?" he asked. Mama stared pointedly at his crotch and then said, pan-faced, "Absolutely not." I think a little part of me died when those words left her mouth.

In my family, we have a joke that is essentially about being a fattie. If any of us are sad or blue, we say, "Go to your happy place... which by the look of you, love, is Greggs ." This is pretty much representative of our family dynamic and humour.  The four of us- Mama, Papa and Baby Brother Jack- popped into the Greggs closest to where I live on the way home from a family breakfast. On the way there, there were the obligatory  happy place jokes- mainly directed at me. "Hello again!" I chirruped to the chap behind the counter on the way in. Papa and Jack looked at each other. "Regular here are you?" they asked. And then the bastards wet themselves laughing.

When stopping for McDonald's  petrol yesterday, I had to navigate a tricky bit of winding, bendy road as I navigated off of the dual carriage way. As I indicated right I was somewhat aware of what looked like a uniformed police officer in an unmarked car sat in the layby. Always a model citizen (shut up! You at the back!), I made a mental note to watch my speed/indications/hands-at-two-and-ten. I approached a stupid painted-in-the-raod-like-a-big-white-cow-turd circular roundabout (oh wait, are there any other kind? Of course it was circular! D'uh) and stopped. I looked both ways. I calmly indicated my intention to turn left, and put the car into gear as I pulled away to the right and congratulated myself on using the painted circle as intended, rather than just driving right over it as I might have done had I not seen the unmarked police car. On my way around the roundabout, another car pulled out and came straight at me. It was a middle-aged man, in a suit, so automatically I

"That is great, just one more hill! Come on! That is great guys! You can do it!" The very skinny woman leading our semi-circle of stagnant bicycles uses a lot of exclamation points when she speaks. She is thin. And tan. And... perky. I hate her. "And we'll do it one last time!" she exclaims, pretty much to a resounding, "No, we won't (exclamation point!)," from the rest of us. There is a lot of pinky flesh on show by the end of the class- and not an inch of it hers. She doesn't even seem to break a sweat. I hate her. Did I say that already? Fortunately, these hills are only virtual ones so it is entirely possible to sit them out. I'm not really sure why I am here. I have paid £1.90 at the local leisure centre for this torture. They it call X-Biking (Not Yet Patented), which is basically just an exercise bike with moveable handlebars, ..."for a really great (!) workout!" says the skinny woman at the front. My bum felt pretty sore a

Me: I didn't know you were applying to do a Master's! That's brilliant! Very Tall Friend: Yeah, Cultural Heritage Management. Me: Eh? VTF: Archeology. Me: Oh. So are you definitely in? VTF: I had my interview last week, and the admissions woman said she was concerned about one of my module grades from my undergraduate study, so it is all dependent on getting a really great reference from that module tutor. Me: Honey? VTF: Yeah? Me: Is that the tutor that you slept with by any chance? VTF: Yup. Me: Congratulations then! You're in!

I think I may have inadvertently let it slip that I don't get out much. It only took a glass and a half of Pinot Grigio to get me a bit squiffy on arrival at the bar. Naturally, it was lovely to see everyone, and there were some faces I'd not seen in a while. There was lots of 'Mwah! Mwah!' air kisses and the like. I was sure to ask everybody lots of questions about they were, their news, what they thought about naughty Tiger Woods and the impending disintegration of the earth through climate change. You know the drill. I can be quite good at being fabulous. It all started to go wrong, though, when I was conversing with my oldest friend. She was telling me that she had bumped into her old boss a few nights previously and got chatting. She was actually his girlfriend for a couple of years too, so it wasn't really as simple as I make it sound. And what with him having got married not so long ago it can, on occasion, be a bit awkward. "Yeah," she said, "

The Williams Family Christmas Card for 2009, I think. Dad rehearsed his shimmy for weeks. Send your own ElfYourself eCards

So there I was, midnight on a Saturday, reading 'How to be Good' for the gazillionth time in whilst waiting with the engine of the car running and the light on, wearing something very ugly but very warm, outside of the pub for The Parents. I am allegedly in my prime. Early twenties, educated, not too bad to look at, prospects, no responsibilities. Yet on that Saturday night, what had I done? Not a jiffy. I'd gone to visit my parents and they went out. Pathetic. I should have been out having casual sex with boys in bands, wearing skintight leather and purple stockings with matching underwear that looks better on the floor than it does on. In some parallel universe I was probably chain-smoking under dim lights whilst erotically swaying to the hypnotic rhythm of some androgynous looking fella that I'd later seduce with my easy wit and sexual charm. I was no doubt up all night doing naughty things and forgetting to take my make-up off, but still waking up looking like Rach

My favourite memory of you, Nanna May, is when I went to visit you in hospital about a year ago. I felt like a Very Bad Granddaughter and wanted desperately to make it up to you for not having been to visit in a while. So I asked you if there was anything I could do for you. "Gosh, yes, there is actually," you replied. "Yes?" I answered. And you requested that I clean your teeth. A simple task. Of course I could do that, I told you, and I wondered how I would help you walk to the sink. You moved your tongue around your mouth then, and popped your teeth out into your hand. As you passed them to me I grumbled, "Well that makes it easier then."

I followed the grey-haired woman with my eyes as she weaved in and out of the Christmas section of the toyshop. I watched as she smiled, undiscovered and unsuspected, at young children with cheeks rosy from the cold, and profiled her as she sidestepped my obvious glances of disgust. The British are very good at looking disgusted, I think. And tutting. I think I tutted. She repulsed me. The greed of her excessive consumption brought bile to my throat. The image of the way she hid her sick secret underneath her ugly polyester coat without regard for anyone or anything will haunt me until the day I die. This woman was attempting to buy too many Go-Go Hamsters. She was blatantly disregarding the rule that no customer should dare THINK about trying to purchase more than two, let alone actually exceed limitations by placing said boxes into their cart. Two was a generous allowance- last week it was strictly one per customer, and poor mums and dads (well, actually, let's be honest. It was