There is something hidden down deep inside me that would love to have a
Northern Hemisphere Christmas. The last one I experienced was many moons ago
just after I’d turned ten years old, and just before my family was due to
emigrate from England to Australia. It felt rather strange as we approached our
first Summer Christmas, peeling off the layers instead of piling them on, but as
it coincided with the main holiday time of the year, it didn’t take too long to
make the adjustment.
Despite Christmas landing in summer, we are still inundated with
Christmas cards depicting snow scenes, movies set in winter locations, and Christmas
lunch menus more in line with a winter’s feast. Many have updated their
approach, choosing instead to check what the weather forecast is dishing out
first, and then cooking accordingly, as well as making it a lot more relaxed
affair with barbecues and picnics, or a come one come all bring something to
share gathering. There are still the die-hards though who for some reason feel
Christmas is so much more Christmassy when it has all the traditional
trappings.
I don’t think I’m one of those, but I also think there must be a certain
degree of magic in the air up North in the lead up to Christmas. A sense of
anticipation. Snuggling in front of the fire as the days grow shorter and
colder, cutting out paper chains to look like a string of snowflakes, dreaming
of a white Christmas with snowball fights, tobogganing and making snowmen, groups
of carollers gathered under streetlamps in little English country villages, the
twinkle of lights around frosty windows.
Maybe I am a die-hard traditionalist after all.
Maybe I am a die-hard traditionalist after all.
delicate, fashioned with care
bring back memories
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