And so this is Christmas

There is something strangely comforting in the quiet drone of the Latin Mass which is eminating from the television on my right. The Pope, in a very socially distanced St Peters in Rome, is giving Mass, in Latin, or what sounds like Latin to me, now that the Evensong has passed. He's done the smells and bells bit, waving the thurible around the alter, spreading frankinsense smoke around the building. The sparse congregation are masked, pius, a mixture of veiled clergy sit quietly, reverently as the boy soprano sends sounds, just off that sad, affecting minor fourth which provides the sucker punch to the solar plexus. I feel sorry for the boy sopranos - how must it be knowing you've have this God given talent, only to have it taken away with puberty. Puberty kills so many things. 

But I digress. It's Christmas. 

I was once again woken to the sound of kookaburras. After a lie in, a Netflix movie and a cup of coffee, still in a pair of shortie pyjamas and slipping some thongs on my feet, I wandered down to the 'big house', saying a silent happy birthday to my Aunt, who would be turning 79 today if she was still around. In the agapanthuses, butterflies fly free, and I say a verbal hello to my niece, who is also not here. We do that, our family, saying hello to Lauren when you see a butterfly. It's her way of letting us know she's around.

Picking my way down the hill, past the trailer, down the side of the big shed, past the wood stack, avoiding the roo poo, I go inside. My stepdad is sitting at the kitchen bench shelling three kilos of prawns, looking somewhat annoyed. Mum is flapping around the place, doing last minute jobs. I want to tell her to stand up straight, making a mental note that my grandmother had the same stoop by her age. It's a good reminder for me to keep up the exercise, weights and take my calcium supplements.

Lucifer was happy to see me. He's settling well with Mum - at least he's eating and coming out for visits now. He'll be good here for a month. As for me - I'll have to manage without my little lightbringer when I go back to Melbourne on Monday. 

I saw Christmas Day in on a call with a friend. My friend is in England, where things appear grim, was trying to be philosphical. I still envy the cold Northern Hemisphere Christmas, where the twinkling lights, dense food and enclosed spaces feel more natural. Spending the last moments of Christmas Eve in what amounts to a converted shed (and a very nice converted and decorated shed it is) gave the night a discordant feel. 

Christmas isn't for everybody. I've friends who voraciously boycott the day, others who go all out to be as maddeningly festive as possible. I'm more a line of least resistance type. Give me jobs. Minimal participation as required. I've made the seafood sauce - that got done to my stepdad's chagrin - that's normally his job. 

But now I'm here, back in the 'studio', listening out for the bellbirds and kookaburras, hoping I open the curtains to see some kangaroos, thankful it's not going to be too hot. 

After many, many years, the Christmas angst is gone. For too long, Christmas was a time of tears and terror, a day where abject loneliness set in and was all encompassing. It was quite frankly, horrific. 

Now, all I look forward to is a relaxing day. This year, I'm not glazing Blarney's ham, which is now my designated job when I spend Christmas with the Melbourne family. This year I'm not having to lust after Christmas pudding, as mum has that ready to go (Blarney and Barney don't like it so we never have it - they're strange) AND best of all, there's a big feed of prawns waiting for me at lunch. Because prawns are the best and the best Christmases have lots of prawns. (It's always a hot roast lunch with Blarney, Barney and tribe, and that is good too - but it's not prawns with our homemade seafood sauce)

I'm also looking forward to later, when everybody has gone home and I can settle in front of the telly. SBS World Movies has come through big time. 7.30 pm - The Hunt for the Wilderpeople. 9.30 pm The Blues Brothers. No The Life of Brian this year. Also, because of the timezone think, I can't watch and comment along with Mac, who's also a Blues Brothers tragic.

The Pope is about to wrap up his dirge. The Vatican choir are singing Silent Night, in Latin. Damn those minor fourths. 

Pax Domini pax semper vobiscum. 

Pax. Lux. 

Today's Song: