Dad used to do this. No turkey, no ham on Christmas Day. Just meat cooked to within millimetres of inedibility and salad. Beer, too, of course. We have a couple of dozen stubbies of Fourex and Tooheys Old swimming in ice in the laundry sink. It’s a pretty grim Christmas. Last year there were so many more people. There doesn’t seem to be much of a chance of backyard cricket. I look down at the lawn, which is in need of a mow – I’m not going to have time to do it in the next few days. But the kids don’t seem to mind. Alex is down there with Tim and Sally. I’m glad I invited him. Christmas is a busy time for us, but for a moment we can pretend it isn’t. A hand slides around my waist. ‘Look at him down there, bailed up by your cousin. Do you think they’re bitching about you?’ Alex is listening intently to something Tim is saying. ‘Of course not, they respect me too much,’ I say, kissing Lissa on the cheek.
