10 days. 10 whole beautiful days I was given for my Christmas holiday and was I determined to live them as fully as one who abides by the law, doesn't know how to dance to dub step, and quite likes a good 10 hours sleep a night. Uh-oh, danger train, first stop- my lovely Aunt and Uncle's house, already full to the bursting with visiting Europeans, happily winding up my poor Aunt with "oh but MY family always does it THIS way."
After lounging by the pool all Christmas Eve (as opposed to fighting over who has to haul in the next bucket of snow to melt for water at home....you think I jest), we packed a summery hamper of Christmas ham and all sorts of fantastic accompaniments and relocated our Legion of Foreigners to Cremorne Point. The site was a perfect spot to see the last rays of the days sun light the harbour bridge, champagne glass firmly wedged in-hand.
Christmas Day dawned blazingly bright and cheery.
‘Tis the season to be jolly?
Apparently not in Australia. Over here it’s tis the season to maintain the relentless jogging routine, low fat foods, tanning and other things not associated with fat bearded men. The injustice. This was particularly evidenced when it seemed that everyone was in agreement that a between Christmas lunch and pudding swim was in order. EH? Was I alone in having just attempted to defy science and nature in the portion of food I had consumed? Apparently so. My cousins’ Christmas photos therefore consist of me strategically holding large objects to my midriff a la Calendar Girls (except that I don’t have the excuse of being middle-aged..or naked).
On Boxing Day I set off on a spontaneous camping trip 4 hours north of Sydney with an assortment of Europeans and a token Aussie. You’d think after the rigours of Gordonstoun I would instinctively know the inherent dangers of the words ‘camping trip;’ burnt off eyebrows, forgotten bags of food, meths induced blindness (perhaps an exaggeration, but apparently the girl did need glasses a few years after accidentally drinking some) and general sodden misery, apparently not. And true to form it was as harrowing as camping gets. With no equipment and terrible weather it was all rather reminiscent of the beginning of a horror film. My subconscious must have agreed with this conclusion sooner than I had as at one point in the night I woke up screaming- convinced I was suffocating under my holy sheet of tarpaulin.
Still, the countryside was stunning. I hadn’t realised how green Australia could be. All the landowners of the area were of Scottish descent and with names like Cameron, Laurie and Fraser, I believed them. Aside from the bouts of FortWilliam-esque weather, the steep green hills and hidden glens were like the Highlands on a huge scale.
Upon my return to Sydney, I resolutely returned to the comfort of a conventional summer in the city; going to the numerous vintage/flea markets and attempting to learn how to look hip, lazing around coffee shops or by the sea, pretending to watch boat races, and discovering unusual little bars and fun live bands by night.
Whilst the sun was up on New Years Eve I joined my cousin Iona's friends in a smart little cove on the harbour's North shore to bob around in our flotilla of booze-laden dinghies. As the sun reluctantly went down I headed on to meet our ever-growing gang of Brits-on-Tour to pretend to know the host at the loudest party we could find in Paddington. Music videos and the all-important fireworks display were projected onto the side of the neighbouring house throughout the night, taking all the effort out of tourism.
