Thursday, 11 December 2014
In the spirit of Mrs Woog's trip back in time to Christmases past, I remember a cracker of a Christmas. I was nine and like Mrs Woog, my mum had just remarried after it being just my brother, mum and I for five years. And it was good. He loved us and we loved him. He was the brother of the lady next door and we'd known him for a while. The neighbours had been like our extended family for years. And now those neighbours - all four kids, our best mates - were now our real cousins. Magic. These were the kids we made towel turbans and daisy chain headpieces with after spending a day in the sun, crisping up our skin and eating frozen cordial ice strips that made our chins sticky. Sweaty from backyard cricket, wearing bikinis and terry towelling tops - mine had Minnie Mouse on it - we would pinch Uncle Max's passionfruit straight from the vine and suck out the centres. Our real dad had buggered off to pastures unknown, never to be seen again, when we were little. Let's just say he was a
nasty piece of work not a nice fella.
Come Christmas morning there were two things under the tree - a pair of Orange Daddy Long stilts - woohoo - and a black and white puppy.