Fear not, my children. I have not abandoned you. I have, rather, been involved in events of epic proportions, as I shall now relate. (Get comfy.)

24th Dec, last year: Dee flies for Queensland, having had enough of people whinging about it being 'hot' when the temperature barely crested 35 (celsius) and the humidity was practically absent. It wasn't hot; it was nicely pleasant. So I pack a suitcase, realising that since my present for my father was fresh coffee, everything I owned was now going to smell of coffee. Oh well, this might be the beginning of a new range of colognes.

The flight from Canberra to Sydney is an interesting thing. It lasts about three quarters of an hour. There isn't enough time for the plane to level out, it's just up and down. It's like a normal flight in fast forward. No sooner has the air hostess done her little speech after take-off than she's wheeling out the refreshment cart. She serves you coffee while the pilot tells you all the particulars of the flight. Then she whisks away your trays, and it's seats-in-the-upright-position time for landing. Except the amusing parade of this flight was interrupted by the worse patch of turbulence I've ever encountered coming into Sydney. Of course, I didn't have a little film development (aka up-chuck) bag in my pocket, so I had to beg my neighbours before I proceeded to throw up everything except my toe nails (I checked).

So I get to Brisbane, where the minute I got out of the nicely air-conditioned car (having leapt straight into it from the nicely air-conditioned airport), the sticky heat clamped down on me like a slap in the face with bread dough that's been left in the sun to rise. I turned to my darling father and wailed: "Take me back to Canberra!" He laughed. Bastard. I consider not giving him his coffee, but realise that he'd know I had it, since all my clothes now smell of it.

That night, I escape going to Mass, but am stuck with being the cat-sitter. Easy, you may think, but this cat is no ordinary hellish feline. This cat is especially devillish, and determined to go outside. After it managed to open the door and escape while I was in the shower (thankfully not going very far, so I went out, got it, brought it back, and scolded it) I camped in front of the door, attempting to write. Hah. The cat crawled all over me, trying to find the way out. Eventually, it retreated to a chair, from which it watched me closely, no doubt waiting for me to fall asleep so it could claw out my liver and escape. Luckily, the church-goers returned before I nodded off.

25th Dec, last year, Merry Christmas all: The problem with sleeping on the sofa bed in the lounge room is that you become, by necessity, the second-earliest riser in the house. My cousins, who always used to wake me up with exhortations regarding my laziness, do not surface for an hour and a half after my own 6am emergence. My aunt shocks me by telling a story whose punchline is: "Are you coming?" (and I assure you, they were not wondering if he was going to accompany them). My mother shocks me by laughing herself silly. Later, my father will shock me by nearly repeating the story to my grandmother, who shocks me by complaining that being grandma is no fun, since you miss all the good stories.

Honestly, old people these days.

So the grandies arrive, and the presents are doled out by the young 'uns, as it has been from time immemorial. I end up with fairly much equal piles of reading matter (Martin and Jordan, as requested) and chocolate. Along with a few randoms like some socks and this weird smock-dress thing. Lunch is plentiful and blessedly free of jokes with sexual connotations. Afterwards, the grand tradition of the Christmas Nap is enacted. I decide to get amongst it this year, and awake half an hour before dinner to find that I've taken line honours at 4 hours straight, but have been disqualified since the judges think I was sleeping too heavily to qualify for the 'nap' part.

I demand a recount.

Later, I am left the sole remaining one awake as I sit up to watch the usual Australian Dancesport Championships, and wonder if maybe, just maybe...

But probably not.

26th Dec, last year: Visiting the sister time. My sister is 17 years older than me and married with three children. All daughters. The youngest one is spoilt rotten and quite a brat, which we don't understand because my sister is a school teacher and you'd think she of all people would have enough sense not to let her child behave like that. Anyway, it wasn't an extended lunch visit, which is good, because my sister and I don't have much to talk about, my brother-in-law is a tall, gruff, stoic fellow who hides behind his beard and my nieces are either too young or old enough to find hanging out with me just too uncool.

That afternoon, my cousins and I play multi-player Grand Theft Auto. More fun than three people should be allowed to have. My younger cousin (who I have described as a younger, male version of me) and I were in the same room, shouting abuse at each other, and eventually we just decided to find the biggest vehicles we could and play chicken at 100+ mph on the freeways. What better way to spend Boxing Day?

27th Dec, last year: We drive home. I sleep a lot. Mum plays Camelot and Pirates of Penzance cassettes. The whole family sings along. It starts to rain. It will keep on doing this for the next three days. Bah humbug to sunny Queensland.

28th Dec - 30th Dec, last year: I catch up with Nardia, to discover that her live-in lover proposed on Christmas day, in front of the entire family. She shows off her ring. I tease her and the lucky man shamelessly. We all hang out together and be silly, like we usually do. Sleepy Hollow, GalaxyQuest and Ferris Bueller's Day Off are watched. Trashy romances and porn are read. Sarcastic, insightful comments are made. Far too frequently. I enjoy life. It is still raining.

31st Dec, last year, but only just: I spend New Year's Eve packing. Or attempting to pack, while the cat goes to sleep in my suitcase. I consider bringing the cat back with me. My mother plays pinball on the computer. We spend the last few hours of the year 2000 beginning a jigsaw. You know, spreading out the pieces and picking out the edge bits. The fireworks start at 11:30, and I'm a bit miffed, because shouldn't you wait for the thing you're celebrating to happen before you start celebrating it?

Good bye, 2000. You were fun while you lasted, but now you're swept aside like so much debris to make way for the new model. From where I'm standing, it's bright, shiny, new and full of promise. No doubt, once I get closer, it will turn out to be just like the old model.

We'll just have to wait and see, I suppose.