It’s September. And you know what that means.
Christmas. Christmas is upon us.
There’s no stopping it, or slowing it. It creeps up on you, taps you on the shoulder, and then BAM. Christmas.
Who’s that creeping around outside, pressing its wild face against the glass, readying a brick to hurl right through the metaphorical window?
Oh yes. It’s…Christmas.
There’s so much to DO, darling! We must get ready, completing all of the mundane tasks before we run out of time for such mundane things. For example, this morning I rang around every single one of the tyre repair shops in Preston, because a flat or busted tire at Christmas is basically like bidding the entire event goodbye. You break down on the way back from fetching the turkey, every mechanic’s garage for miles around is booked solid until June, and so your only option is to take that turkey in your arms and run seven kilometers home, lest it spoil in the back seat, which it will because it’s summer in Australia for Christmas and that’s just not the correct environment for unrefrigerated meat.
In fact, keeping your car in good shape is utterly vital in staving off the Christmas disasters. You need your car to transport the nine-foot tree that you just went and cut down yourself. You need your car to transport your cantankerous in-laws from the airport to your home, and despite how appealing it may seem to break down at that exact moment, you know that your mother-in-law Francesca is going to hold it over you forever and your father-in-law Jerome is going to start telling you all about the best mechanic garages in Northcote, and he’s lying because he lives in Noosa. He’s clearly just looking them up on his phone and trying to make it sound like he knows the local area better than you.
Ah, Christmas. Time of celebration. Season of goodwill.
And nightmare to be endured.