Yep, that one’s still jingling around my skull, which – you might be interested to know – has the same acoustic effect as the shower.
Apart from the cacophony that is my cranium, our Christmas was a quiet affair. No exploding fairy lights, high-volume Slade or heated arguments over pudding portions. There was a bit of crackling, but it was more of the crispy pork fat variety.
For me, Christmas in New Zealand continues to be a surreal experience – and more so with the parents issuing regular updates from Ireland which was in the grip of the coldest winter on record. Of course, the Middle East was hardly a winter wonderland at this time of year – or even any other time of year – but December was the chilliest month. If you turned the A/C right down, it was cool enough to wear a scarf and drink mulled wine.
West Auckland apparently hit 34 degrees on Christmas Day, so the coldest we got was a light swelter.
Generally I have proved hugely adaptable to Kiwi culture, bending like an all-black in a spear tackle to the various concepts of: perky nana bars, boiling mud, black sand, honesty boxes, the right hand rule.
But I’m not sure I will ever get used to celebrating Christmas in the middle of summer.