Xmas miracle

Given the subject matter covered in my blog, I am always tremendously relieved that my family doesn’t read it, this post being no exception.

I know they won’t be reading it because they suffer from a severe case of technical retardation. Symptoms include a lack of desire to work out how to get online. This is common disability amongst Australians, who cannot imagine that everything they need to know is not found in their local paper. Happily what they won’t find in their local paper is this confession; I think I had my best Xmas ever in London, despite no one at the table swimming in my gene pool...for the best really, as it is rather shallow.

Now the fact that I was terribly intoxicated by 1pm obviously had nothing to do with it. Nor did the fact that with my neighbors away, I was able to dance naked to Madonna with the blinds up before I went off to lunch. I am joking of course: I dance naked to Madonna with the blinds up even when they are home.

Am I the only one who had never worked out that Xmas is far less stressful when you spend it with people you don’t know that well? No one cares what you do; because there is a very good chance you will never see each other again…that, and the fact they are just as hammered as you are. So there is no judgment when you ask for a vodka and coke at 11am, or a second vodka and coke at 11.03am.

There is also no judgment passed when whilst watching The Sound of Music you reveal to this room of strangers that you are sexually attracted to Captain Von Trapp. Admittedly after five bottles of Veuve and Moet the Captain is making everyone tingle…even the blokes.

The other bonus of Xmas with strangers is that because everyone brings a dish, you inadvertently reduce the odds of sitting down to a meal that leaves you rushing to find if there is a McDonalds open. Even if there is one dish that you would rather slip into a pot plant, the rest is pretty darn wonderful. If my host is reading this, I am sorry I really should have mentioned the incident with the pot plant sooner.

The only culinary drawback of Xmas with strangers is that you finally get confirmation that as you always suspected your mother overcooks her carrots. ‘Overcook’ being an uncharacteristically polite euphemism for ‘murders.’ The massacring of vegetation is not really such a travesty; you didn’t eat them at home, and when you are with strangers you don’t have to clean your plate. In fact on reflection if I had asked for a bucket of gravy and a snorkel instead of a knife and fork, no one would have battered an eyelid.

Even the presents are better. No one attempts to second guess what you might like, and so they just buy you something that anyone with a pulse would like; in my case a set of wine glasses. How did they know? Santa Claus never contributed to my liquor cabinet. This is how I knew he wasn’t real; anyone who really knows me would have slipped me some crystal and ideally a cocktail of lets say legal stimulants, instead of a Cabbage Patch Doll.

By the time I get home from Xmas at almost midnight I was so drunk I could barely walk, again nothing new for the neighbors. Well, except for the bit where I started undressing before I got the door open. Which I can report lead to a rather unfortunate case of frost bite, given the below freezing temperature.

So next year I am just going to wander into someone else’s house and see if they will have me, but not before I dance around naked. For old time's sake.


Here’s to the people who are no longer strangers: Amanda, Em, Jo, Peter, Tim and the two little girls who made me fall back in love with Xmas.

Santa's very little helper

They say that charity begins at home. Sadly this year it can’t find its way out of my front door.

This week I discovered just how hard it is to be kind to my fellow Londoners. Several months ago I decided to volunteer with the Salvation Army on Christmas Day. After years of snorkeling in vats of gravy on the 25th, it felt like it was time to help serve up lunch to someone who might otherwise go without.

My newfound thoughtfulness may have had something to do with the fact that everyone I knew in London (all six of them) were fleeing the city for Christmas, but suspend your scepticism and assume that my intentions were entirely honorable.

After putting my name down to be a volunteer I waited for my call back. The call never came, and so last week I called to check where I was needed and at what time. Needless to say I hoped that they would understand that it would be ever so inconvenient if I was expected to be anywhere before midday.

‘Oh no, it’s too late to volunteer, you needed to file an application and we have to do a police check on you which takes 10 days to come through.’

‘But I put my name down weeks ago and gave you all my details, no one said anything about filing an application. What do you think I am going to do anyway? Steal the baked potatoes?’ This was in fact exactly what I intended to do. I had spent all my free time in the weeks prior trying to calculate the best way to walk away from the Salvation Army with a large volume of gravy on my person.

I cannot tell you how bad it is for one’s self confidence to be rejected by the Salvation Army on Christmas Day.

So I called Crisis; a London based charity involved with helping the homeless. Surely these guys would need some help on Christmas Day.

‘Sorry but we have enough help.’ Said the voice on the other end of the phone.

Remember this is a charity we are talking about here.

My last hope was to type into Google ‘I have no where to go on Christmas Day.’ Another charity popped up, but it turned out they would only take my help if I committed to working from 7am to 3pm. Happily by this stage I had been invited to a Christmas lunch, so my goodwill for mankind needed to be wrapped up by around 1pm. This apparently didn’t work for them.

So I sit here wondering whether Londoners have bigger hearts than I thought and that just maybe the bureaucracy here makes it hard for us to use them.

Then I realise that someone has swiped the notebook which was perched next to me in the pub where I am writing this. I think my charity and belongings are better off at home whilst in London.

Gobble Gobble

I have just survived my first Thanksgiving in the States unscathed, however now I do walk around under the impression that consuming just three meals a day is for people who lack ambition.

When I was there I had to eat something I didn’t want to, which for me is saying something. I had to eat my words.

For some time it has been a sport for of mine (and most Londoners) to slag off Americans. Maybe the participation rate of this sport is so high because it is pretty darn easy to win a place in the finals. Three words: war on terror. But our cousins across the pond do have something over us Londoners: a genuine capacity to relax and enjoy themselves without artificial stimulants (yes this includes X Factor.)

The joy that radiates from Americans during Thanksgiving is almost thermonuclear. At first I just assumed that the saturated fat had finally triumphed to become the number one ingredient in their brain. Then I realised that these jolly people were just genuinely happy. This emotion was difficult for me to recognise after living so many years in London. Their joy was also contagious. I even eventually gave in and found myself saying ‘happy holidays’ to every person who crossed my path. The odd poodle also had to endure my new found desire to spread goodwill. I didn’t even know what my annoying new greeting meant...admittedly I should've been able to crack this verbal code.

I only truly understood its meaning when Thanksgiving Day itself came around.

Never in one place have I seen so many potatoes, and I have been to Ireland on several occasions. Happy holidays indeed. My first task of the day was to peel all 20lbs of them for my hosts. Manual labour has never brought me so much pleasure.

Had I had an understandable heart attack at that moment, I would have died a happy woman. Nothing could have topped the sight of all those potatoes sitting in the pan, waiting for greatness. That is until I saw the cooking appliance in which my gravy was being made. I say ‘appliance’ deliberately, because anything that needs to be plugged in is surely an appliance. My gravy was being housed in the world’s largest crock-pot: undoubtably the two sweetest words in the English language.

Now I finally understood my host’s insistence that I wear sweat pants to lunch. This meal called for clothing without boundaries.

As promised the day consisted entirely of eating, drinking and watching TV in comfortable trousers that could sleep two. The genius of Thanksgiving being that unlike at Christmas time there is no requirement to make a pilgrimage to church, and no pressure to spend money on others (when you would obviously rather be spending on yourself.)

So I wondered why us London folk have not adopted this truly transformational holiday, after all our love of lard based products would make it easy for us assimilate. When it comes down to it, I am convinced it is simply because Thanksgiving would require us to relax to a point that would make us feel uncomfortable; loose clothing, spontaneous displays of affection and the decision to set a straw next to the knife and fork to aid gravy consumption. What if someone saw us? Making an arse of ourselves is reserved only for reality TV shows. Reality is something else.

So sorry Londoners, the Americans have got at least one thing right (please note that Americans have got the following things wrong: The Amish, cheese products in a spray can, any member of the Bush family, American Football, Dr Pepper and Britney Spears.)

I do wonder however whether I would be so happy to eat my words if said words weren’t smothered in gravy.




God bless the gravy makers: The Moore, Zajac and Plunkett families.