THEY CALL IT THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS
There is a brass band on my street gustily rendering Christmas Classics™. I feel warm and sentimental imagining a bevvy of warm turkey, Christmas decorations and fresh pudding swimming in a sea of custard. But I try to nip it in the bud, realising that my mum never went in for turkey, in fact, the most elaborate her Yuletide food prep got was sourcing a cheap leg of ham from Coles. And that our Christmas tree was actually a weird native pine with stunted growth cuz it was constricted in an unfortunately sized plastic pot. The Christmas decorations themselves were a perplexingly ramshackle assortment of items, styrofoam angels and Santas with puncture wounds where our dogs had attempted to tear apart their glitter-encrusted limbs. And pudding? I don't even know what proper Christmas pudding looks like. Furthermore, custard is a definite no no on a 34 degree mid-summer day in the Antipodes.
Still, the trumpets and tubas blast the schmaltzy tones of Silent Night into the neighbourhood. Silent Night... if only.
Still, the trumpets and tubas blast the schmaltzy tones of Silent Night into the neighbourhood. Silent Night... if only.