I wrote this at Christmas time, clearly. Reading through draft posts, I stumbled across it and decided it deserved to see the light of day.
However, I can't remember the rest of the day.
So, Australia. Christmas has come swiftly onwards. I, for one, wasn't prepared, but it was lovely anyway.
After a decidedly strange Christmas Eve, my family awoke this morning to the sounds of my father dear excitedly pronouncing that it was indeed morning.
And the festivities began...
9am - My father is racing around the house being loud. After recently dislocating his elbow, I think he feels he must compensate for this. His noise is doubly loud.
I wander into the kitchen and find my mother, who is making breakfast. Dad has made a festive fruit platter for us to share. My brother, down for three days, looks disgusted at the concept of being shuttled into a Santa hat, but quietly informs me that he has put a Rhinocort box in the hat so he can pretend it's a sorcerer's hat.
9.30 - We sit down for breakfast. Chris is humming the theme tune to the Sorcerer's Apprentice and is attempting to levitate the butter, located out of arm's reach. Dad and I are eyeing him, then staring at each other, in concern. Chris gives up, adjusts his hat, and begins using the Force to summon the butter.
10.00 - Dad dances over to the lounge and the present swapping begins. Chris excitedly hands out his presents. He says, apologetically, that he looked all over Brisbane for Season 6 of The Office but couldn't find it, so he will buy me another present.
I'd forgotten to tell him it wasn't available in Australia, and instead quickly pass him the pregnancy pillow I got him. He cradles it to himself.
10.30 - Dad is handing out the presents, whilst air-guitaring to the Neil Diamond Hot August Night CD he received from me. Mum is leafing through the cookbook I got her, while Chris sits under a mountain of clothes and pillows. Dad excitedly hands me another present. It is a Spanish copy of The Shadow of the Wind. I pretty much die of happiness on the spot. Dad hands me a bag. Inside is a pair of 13cm high stilettos. Tugging them on in fits of glee, I stumble over to give Dad his present.
11.30 - Mum, Chris and I are quietly sitting on the lounge. Dad is opening ten or so presents. He hands us cards, where he tells us he sponsored children in our names over in Africa. Which is decidedly epic, methinks.
12.00 - We realise that in three hours, my grandparents will arrive. I have been placed in charge of presentation, a thing my mother doesn't particularly enjoy doing with food. I become a veritable Bridezilla, according to Chris. As I polish cutlery and fold napkins, Chris loudly declares that he is having nothing to do with my wedding ("but you're going to the convent anyway") and that I will be locked away when he is getting married.
12.30 - Dad has opened a bottle of Moet.
1.00 - Dad has finished the bottle of Moet. He opens another.
1.30 - I continue fixing the table. Chris, meanwhile, contemplates naps. He instead assists Mum with some food prep. Dad is getting giggly.
2.00 - Chris succumbs to sleep, and the table is nearly finished. I take a photo. Dad photobombs it. Mum tries getting an increasingly giggly Dad to help her cook things. Dad seems more fixated on attempting to hack my phone to text Glen. As a result, he locks my phone for 15 minutes. Bored now, he proceeds to follow me around the house, flicking me.
2.30 - I get dressed. Mum forbids Dad from opening more champagne until my grandparents arrive, and instead instructs him to vacuum.
3.00 - Chris awakens, and Dad mutters darkly as he goes to change his shoes. My father was wearing thongs with jeans, and normally he recoils in horror at such things. Mum and I exchange looks as he makes noises much like my 10 year old cousin made, circa age 3.