It Doesn't Look A Bit Like Christmas

For the past month I have inhabited the surreal parallel world of Australian advent. The blue sky above Bourke Street is veiled with green and red baubles, the town hall is parcelled up beneath a massive red bow, and Flinders Street Station glows each night like the gaudy house front of your most obnoxious neighbour.

On December 13 I returned to Melbourne from Byron Bay to the dulcet clash of glass bottles against tram tracks, Spring Street having become the venue for a late night street brawl. Running up Bourke Street, I wormed my way between Santas, uncostumed and alone in a thirty degree Where’s Wally world. On Christmas Eve we climbed Hanging Rock and looked down with sunlit faces at the land, Tuscan yellow and far below us. Christmas day was Christmas dinner, hosted by a kindly Old Boy from a friend’s school and his wife. The sun was shining and there was hardly a pine tree in sight.

Christmas in Australia and Christmas in the UK are very different, notably that here it’s just somehow… less. I think a lot of that is down to the weather. Come late December, we Brits are desperately in need of something to lift the spirits. But here, with the sun shining and the days drawn out long, the celebration is just an added bonus.

Ridiculous.

bronte beach was sun on my salt-flecked face as i balanced, whooping for joy, on flash's shoulders, the sea up to my chest, bubbles rising from where he stood, submerged. my eyes wept for the salt, tears mingling with ocean, and i did not worry about the burn scar on my back or the precariousness of bikini tops, normally so infuriating. we floated over the first wave, dove under the second, and paddled furiously until we caught the third.

manly was avocado and soft boiled egg salad and a parking space right next to the sand and the story of how flash and gabi met, told lovingly over a jug of water and a bowl of chips.

new year's eve was dancing and photos with full makeup and kati's dress. it was hearts to hearts, sing-alongs, the sound of music, go-pro close-ups of charlie’s face, ice-cold chilean liquor and linked arms. it was stargazing, head skyward, alone atop the wrought-iron garden gate. it was fireworks over the bridge and a grumbling old man promising us we'd end the night in a paddy-wagon. we woke in the same room, exactly where we fell, having eaten all the chicken sandwiches at 4am.

2015 started with a swim in flash's pool. i anchored my ankles against the edge and starfished on the surface, gazing at the peeling eucalyptus whose leaves flecked the blue sky. cockatoos flirted, frangipanis floated, and sia sang through declan's speakers.

we drove everywhere in flash's car, triple j blasting. louis and i bickered in the back seat and kati cackled constantly while gab danced and flash showed us all his favourite places. we rolled down the windows and sang along and didn’t care.

and when my ferry left mosman i stood at the prow, gazing forward.

The 65-year-old who hosted us for Christmas: “What’s a selfie? Sounds like a type of cheap ice cream.”

“I don’t know what my boyfriend sees in me. Look at me. I’m wearing socks and sandals. What the fuck?”

 “God, Miriam, take some time off from being a feminist. Get out from under the king’s horse.”