Seasons Greetings
Sitting here now at my clean work station where year long greasy dust smears no longer spoil the view of family and friends in their picture frames, I give thanks for my Christmas. It has become a tradition that, with no other responsibility but to feed myself on Christmas day, I devote my time to cleaning my immediate environment. First with furniture polish infused cloth I rub down all level surfaces above floor level. Carefully moving and cleaning all movable objects as I go including all those wires that deliver joy from Mr. Computer. No furniture stays unmoved as I proceed with vacuuming the floor. Window sills, door mouldings, skirtings shaving cabinets, nothing escapes this Christian feast day inspired craze for cleanliness. Sinks and showers, basins and bowls, nothing is spared till what remains would inhibit even the biggest ‘Blowies’ instinct to visit.
It shouldn’t surprise that with the extremes of Boxing day’s festivity and post boxing car recovery followed almost immediately it seemed by New Year Eve festivity and recovery (no cars included) that it has taken some time to get a clear view of this cleanliness. I find myself searching Google for a suitable proverb but all I find is ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’ which given the timing of my tradition seems potent but not what I had in mind. No something like ‘a clean house is like a vacant mind’ would have suited me better as I struggle to get this down.
I think it’s tradition that I want to speak of. On the Sunday before Christmas Alice suggested that she and I go shopping as we had the previous year at Bondi Junction, followed by lunch at ‘Unas’ and a drink at the ‘Darlo Bar’. Ah Yes! I responded relishing the possibility of a new tradition. We made it to Bondi Junction for some marvellous bargains marred only by the loss of the parking ticket and $40 cost of a new one. It’s only money we chorused as we went on our merry way to Unas. Meeting Hugh here was the first sign of a break with tradition but hang on this one’s only a year old and it takes time to create a tradition.
Ignoring The Darlo Bar we now broke completely from the template and instead visited Nella’s new high street, low rent, high cost, low brow boutique on Oxford Street. Nella wasn’t there so we retreated to the ‘Fringe’ around the corner for a drink and discussion of tradition V flexibility. Alice was concerned by now about the car which had already cost us a lazy $40 and thought we should find a safe park where it could be left till the morrow if necessary. We found just such a spot disturbingly close to ‘the Cricketers Arms’ where we played pool with a family of Danes. We thrashed them and trashed ourselves without thought of tradition and proceeded on foot to the Beauchamp to watch the sun set over a well earned drink.
I woke the next morning marvelling that I recalled so little of the cab ride home. I marvelled even more when Alice reminded me (reminded is probably the wrong word as I think it implies remembering) of the spaghetti barn where the waiter had reprimanded us for giving to the beggar who would now obviously return to graze again.
There was a considerable amount of fumbling around the ball as we approached this year’s traditional Boxing Day family celebration. A specular catch just before stumps on the final day saw order reinstated and us on the deck at the Prestipino homestead for Boxing Day 2009. Here an ever more impressive beaker of testosterone gathered in front of the television for the ‘traditional’ match from the MCG. A vial of oestrogen brought order to all things in the kitchen. Fish oil and otherwise lubricated old men tested their vitality at sitting, eating, drinking and pulling crackers. Not much attention was given to the pool this year (it was overcast and drizzly) but it should not take more than another year for the real life of this party, Jameson, to re-ignite this passion. Go Jamo!
It’s becoming a tradition for me to parachute in and retrieve my car post event. This gave me the opportunity to reacquaint with Andrea and Clair. Andrea had flown for thirty hours through terrorist strikes and still had the Epping Hotel Christmas Party to cope with before unconsciousness could work its cure. Poor girl will be hoping this is not tradition forming.
Alice and Jack threw a mature little Soirée at their Lavender Bay pad for New Year. Little because there were only fifteen odd invitees and mature because of these three were old enough to be their parents and two, Jane and I, were. I would be interested in the website where this type of Gen Y behaviour is being discussed and whether it may become a tradition but as yet have been unable to find even Betfair laying odds.
I hasten to add that maturity did not dominate this event no; not when a number of invitees, Alice and Jack included, jumped off the wharf into Diesel um Lavender Bay as ‘The Chimes of Midnight’ flashed, nor when Jacks brother Chubb and his mate Jordy vanished leaving only a vague text trail of boats and girls. Maybe these are traditions in the making or ones as old as. Who knows.
Jane and I traditionally washed up and cleaned next day. Alice cooked us breakfast. Jack didn’t look too good but I felt great till almost home when the illness arrived. Too late to sleep off I suffered till early evening when in dire need of grease and a hair of the dog I went to pay respect to ‘The Duke’.
Expecting, at six PM New Years Day, only a night watchman, I wasn’t prepared for the firestorm five deep at the bar throng there apparent. Who were these almost universally black clad males ranging from early twenties to possibly late forties? My first instinct was a convention of roadies. The Enmore theatre next door provides a steady trickle of this sub genre at the Duke but never so many. Then I noticed that their tee shirts, though properly black bore none of the lists of Rolling Stone tours that roadie’s do, rather they all bore in faded white indistinguishable gothic print and archaic hieroglyphics.
I abandoned all hope of Barramundi and retreated to the Warren View though on my way I could not help but notice similar folk in the street and at eateries. Later passing the Enmore Theatre on my way home I noticed small similar gatherings outside and on the bandstand that usually proclaims something like Shara Blasko, Tokyo Shock Boys, or The Wiggles the word Screamfest. Back home and fortified I Googled Screamfest and discovered that Enmore or at least the Theatre had become home to the first ever international heavy metal festival in Australia and I’m not talking mercury here.
Yessire; Spawn of Possession (Sweden), Rotting Christ (Greece) Sonata Arctica (Finland) Dark Funeral (Sweden) Ensiferum (Finland) all and many more were here and had slipped under my radar just as Al Green had. Never mind, if they make a tradition of this last and first day of respective years festival a tradition I shall be prepared.
The chef at The Duke, a fan of this stuff, told me the next day that; they had indeed run out of red meat, and though he was not well enough paid to afford a ticket, these Scandinavian bands were the cream of the crop. You have to wonder is this is the product of or the reason for their supposedly blessed though highest taxed welfare state. Wonder if our pool playing Danes at the cricketer’s were fans. I’ll never know now, another opportunity missed I suppose and seeing little chance of a continuation of my tradition theme here might just sign off now.
