Christmas is coming

I used to love the run up to Christmas me, I did. The freezing cold frosty mornings, nose pressed hard against John Menzies front window, gawping at the toys I dreamed of, the sheer excitement and anticipation of what I might get. Playing games during work hours at school, throwing booby trapped snowballs at neighbours windows then fleeing through crunching snow in case they saw me or worse still caught me and gave me a good doing.
Then there was the great day itself; getting up at two in the morning to see if Santa had been, rushing in my mum and dad’s bedroom, without even knocking, heart a pounding and shouting:-

“Look, dad, I got football boots!”

“Urrgh go away, boy.”

“Tam, that’s not nice. Happy Christmas, pet.”

“Happy Christmas mum and dad!.”

“Dad, can you tie them up for me?”

“In the morning son, in the morning.” Dad’s voice was a cross between an android and a bin full of cabbage.

I’d invariably open all the presents at once, ignoring “to” and “from” labels, assuming everything was for me and then gorge myself on tangerines and Texan bars.
Big sis would come in at about 6:00 am then start howling as I’d made such a mess and ruined all her presents.
Undaunted, I’d put on my new Scotland strip and wait for the stone deaf combo of granny and Uncle Angus to come for dinner and Subbuteo. Those were the days. Christmas was all about me and getting; no hassles, no worries.

When I became a married man it all changed. Christmas became a time for running up and down the M6. Oh yes, those futile attempts to keep everyone but me happy. Occasionally, we’d host the event in an effort to resolve this. We’d realise every time that Great Uncle Archibald in Aviemore or Auntie Wendy in Wales hadn’t made it and hoof it up the road again. Arrangements were always a nightmare.
“Awwww, but we went to your parents last year. We’re always going there.”

“No we’re not. Don’t you like my parents?”

“Of course I do. Just think we should go to mine for a change.”

“What do you mean? We’re always seeing your parents.”

She then presents a list of all the times you’ve seen them over the year. As usual, it turns out to be 30 minutes more than she’s seen hers. Therefore, it’s only fair that we go to them for Xmas. As usual you agree as you’ve got other things to think about.

With kids, it’s even harder to please. All want to see them and their look of Christmas wonderment on their expectant chocolate Santa faces. By the end of a Christmas holiday you’re knackered. What’s worse you’ve been forced to take a week off work using precious holiday when the weather is crap. I’d campaigned long and hard for Christmas in summer, so at least you can get out and about in the sun, or even the rain. Failing disastrously with that approach, I decided to shove the job and move the family to Sydney. And so here I am, looking forward to my first hassle-free Christmas in years.

No family, well apart from Jenny’s cousins twenty minutes away but they’re cool as she’s Scottish and he’s got a Blackadder DVD box set. Oh, and her sister is 90 minutes up the motorway but apart from that and their four kids, well and the cousins who’re In Melbourne and Jenny’s Uncle and Auntie who are visiting relations in Canberra, there’s absolutely no one we’re expected to see or places we should be. Bliss. I love Christmas me, I do.

Mind you, it’s pretty weird this hot weather stuff in December. It’s 35 o C here today and everyone’s sweating like a beast, especially Santa. Our local Wahroonga village day had the sweatiest Santa I’d ever seen, even without any scantily clad elves in sight. He could hardly get a Ho ho ho out without dripping buckets. In the end he’d given up both on festive good will and his beard which sagged exponentially with temperature. He grumpily handed out melted lollipops to the kids in between brow mops.
Taking a pause in licking, the ever philosophical William asked, “Is he the real Santa, Daddy?”

I looked swiftly to Jenny to see if I had confirmation to tell white lies. Her eyes nodded.

“Err, no son. Remember, Santa was born in Glasgow. This guy is just one of Santa’s helpers. You know how busy he is. He’s probably in Myers in Sydney right now.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, son?”

"What does shove it up your ass mean?”

”What! Don’t you ever say that again! Errr, by the way, where did you hear that, son?”

“You know, dad, when Santa was holding the mic on stage then the Town mayor and the policemen took it and helped him to get down. You know, just before he spilled his beer over the speakers and they went all smokey.”


So, there we were wandering about the town centre in shorts and t-shirts, Christmas carols blasting in the background whilst eating ice-creams. Bizarre. And get this, people are hoping for a very hot Christmas. None of this snowy rubbish for them. Makes you wonder though, Bing Crosby could never have cracked Oz with “White Christmas”, could he? It’d be more like “I’m dreaming of a bloody hot Christmas. Just like the one the year before. Where barbies glisten and beer is drunken and birds float round in revealing swimwear.”

I must admit, I’m a bit worried about my first Oz Christmas dinner. Seemingly you can do a full turkey and trimmings, (I’ve even got a dealer who can get me sprouts) but only if you’re nuts. It’s true, traditional Crimbo dinners are only for families who are a sausage short of a six pack or have air conditioning that’s very expensive indeed.

It’s just not the done thing. You’re supposed to have some prawns on the barbie and some fresh fruit. What?!!!! Fresh fruit? Prawns? Are they mad? That’s far too healthy. I want some heavy pudding, I want some turkey. I want some of those sausagey things with bacon wrapped around them and I want stuffing. Actually, a lot of people say that to me. I want the Queen’s speech and I want to be asleep dribbling in my armchair by 4:15 pm clutching a glass of port, wearing my Santa hat at a jaunty angle. I want snow, I want ice, I want misery, I want The Two Ronnies, I want a traffic jam on the M6. I want to see rellies that I don’t want to see.

I want a good old fashioned British Christmas. What am I going to do?

Random mutterings

Well folks, it's been a flurry of activity over the last four weeks. So much has happened that there's no way I can do this bloggo thing every weekend. Far too busy for that. So instead of "weekly wonders" it might well become "random wonders" or "annual wonders" or "wonders when I bloody well feel like them." Thing is, I'm trying to write a book, get a column and construct a play at the mo. Then there's the whole job thing. Major inconvenience. Takes up the best part of the day. A wise man once said to me, "it's a question of priorities." This is totally correct. Very wise. Very unhelpful.

Right, let me think now, last time I wrote about family stuff was my birthday week. Which means I missed the end of November and start and middle of December i.e four full weeks. Ooooh doesn't time fly?
Some snippets that come to mind...William's been a very good boy, doing super trooper at school and, if I may be so bold, seems to be maturing somewhat. Becoming a tad more sensible, respectful and other adjectives one would like to describe one's eldest son by.


Examples? Hmmm. Tricky. Doing what he's told at the third time of asking, rather than not at all. Take the other day's breakfast,

"William can you put the Coco pops away, please?"

"I've got spelling today, dad."

"Right, nice one son. Can you put the Coco pops away, mate?"

"Kamran's got Pokemon cards."

"Yep, right, William. Can you put the Coco pops away?"

"Are the trains running on time today dad?"

"William just put the Cocoa pops away."

"Dad?"

"Arrrgh. Yes, son?"

"Why do you always ask me to do things three times?"

He's been getting bronze and silver certificates at school now. They're super big on praising the kids here, really focussing on good work that they do and making sure it's rewarded. Katy has done super well too and scaled the dizzy heights of getting into the school band. On flute.
I'm proud of them both for settling in so quickly in a new school, with new kids, in a new country, half way through the academic term. Wouldn't fancy it myself, so hats off to 'em, I say!

I remember very well William's first day when he was introduced to two of his new class buddies who were tasked to look after him. He'd been pretty upset about the whole going to school thing right up to the point where he met those guys. I was worried he would collapse in a pool of self pity and come over all wimpy in front of them and be the class soft lad. Not a chance! With his back to them he wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, turned round then looked them straight in the eyes and shook their hands. There was no way on earth he was going to appear wimpy to them.

Tom happily continues to eat his way around the day care centres of the world in the way that oblivious two year olds with no clue where they are or what they are doing can do. At the moment he's super big on Vegemite sandwiches. That's Oz equivalent of marmite. He's also thoroughly enjoying screaming hysterically every night in bed. And who can blame him? What with possoms and cockroaches snoring their heads off all around him, under sweat box conditions, I feel much the same way.

All three are swimming like beasts - having swimming lessons on a Saturday morning then hours of practice duting the week. We're talking kids in pool for four hours plus. Right enough generalisation.

List of random specifics starting from now - been promoted (no extra salary -I'm so laid back now I couldn't be bothered to ask), putting out eight patent applications (wooohooo! One of the main objectives career wise for coming here) Jenny set up new bunting company, my mate's wife has cancer (gulp but hopefully ok), Santa at the village fete was disgracefully sweaty and rude, temp is 35oC, re-started keep fit regime after 4 weeks rib convalescing was up - took it easy by running Monday, Tuesday; golf wednesday; work footie Thursday then proper footie on Sunday. Hurrah!

Then...Disaster! Did my back in after 3 minutes and am out for rest of year (arrrrrrrrrrgh), doesn't feel festive at all as far too hot, concern over sprouts. Wonder if I should change career and become technical writer. St Andrews day was a non-event, caramel wafers aside. Concern I've still got no mates here. Miss my mates from back home and can conclude that OZ would be super fanatstic if they all lived here. Without them it's just fantastic. Found the best park in the world ever. It's in West Pymble. Going to Kylie next week - Jen at Billy Joel tonight. Had day off work as couldn't stand. Boss took us out for curry lunch to celebrate birthdays, and St. Andrew's day (coolio or wot!). Had first poor quality barbie - sausies burst but luckily it was just for kids and after a few pints of coke they didn't even notice, still nasty surpise as I'd thought I was becoming skilled in the trade.

Right let's pick one from the list....What d'ya fancy?

Actually, don't think I'll bother as I'm editing this two weeks late.

I'll start a new blog covering this week.

Honest.

I will.

Really.

I'm going to do it right now...

Thinking of M & T & family.

Skype

When you're miles away overseas, like in a tent in Afghanistan or in a mid-terraced house in Glasgow, you might find Skype incredibly useful. And it is. More or less. For those of you who don't know what it is, I'll briefly enlighten you. It's an internet web cam thingy that allows you to call other Skype users. You have the option to text them live or make one-to-one direct "phone"calls all from the comfort of your home computer. And get this, it's free. Yep, totally free. Well, apart from having to buy a web cam and headphones with mic. Oh, and a computer if you don't have one, and err, broadband internet helps as well. Best to go for a top of the range monitor and cam too so you and your co-chatter can look as beautiful as possible. You might also want to get a man round with a PhD in astro physics for the installation. As I say, it's totally free.

All of this is fine and dandy. In no time you'll be chatting away to friends and family around the globe.

Despite this, some people are really anti-Skype...



Why is that, I wonder? Don't they have friends and family in far off places? don't they like having every Sunday rammed full of Skype appointments? don't they like new technology? don't they like free things, even if they're a bit rubbishy some times?

You see, just like everything else in life, Skype can have some failings, technical hitches if you like, that is no fault of the system, more to do with the users inability to get his act together...

Things that can go wrong are usually visual: best mate looks a bit fuzzy; best mate is tiddly and thinks the desk lamp is the camera; best mate doesn't realise you are there and is screaming obscenities about "bloody Skype" or even worse sitting in his pants scratching his nads. Whatever the event you will spend the majority of your Skype time talking about Skype issues. A typical conversation goes along the lines of :-

"Yo bro is that you, mate?"

"Yes, mate. Is that you, bro?"

"Yes, mate."

"I can't hear you very well."

"Oh, I can hear you ok. You're a bit fuzzy, mind you. Have you been drinking?"

"What was that?"

"I've only got half an hour - going out with the kids."

"Eh? Aye, what's the weather like?"

"I'm just adjusting the camera." The camera, which hangs on the monitor with a pubic hairs worth of plastic, invariably falls "down the back" somewhere. You keep talking anyway, even though you can't be heard. Skype doesn't worry about such minor details. After several delicate attempts trying to rebalance it you hit it repeatedly with a hammer. This severe deformation has worked in your favour, creating a ledge of bruised plastic which fits perfectly around the edge of your monitor.

"Aye, its raining here."

"Oh, it's roasting here."

Then someone will come into the room. Actually, it's usually about nine people and they will all push in for a camera slot, make silly faces and wave like loonies. They'll all then start to rabbit at once, leaving you with nothing to say but...

"It's really hot here" or "it's raining"

At least two people will get behind the web-caster and do rabbit ears whilst mouthing the word "wanker". Which, to be fair, is usually mildly amusing, just a bit disturbing to see your Granny and Grandad doing it.
Before you know it, your half hour is up.

"Right. Great to see you, bro. I'll give you a wee Skypo back next Sunday, ok?!"

"Aye that'd be great, mate. Brilliant talking to you!"

And that's the funny thing, it doesn't really matter what you say. In fact one of the best conversations I had recently was with my brother-in-law and a dead mic. [Microphone that is, not my mate Mike. He's not dead or anything like that. Well, at least he wasn't last time I Skyped him]. I had to hold up bits of paper which said witty things like "you look like a girl" and "can you go away please I need the toilet". He managed to waffle on in monologue with me in stitches as he gave me abuse about everything from my hair to my taste in socks. I responded with silent wit and charm. It's amazing how many times one can show ones buttocks and give the vicky to a web cam and still get a laugh.

You see, it's being in touch that counts. Which, when all said and done, makes Skype well worth the pain.