Ho Ho Ho from Hobbity Enzed

After 20 years, I still find Christmas in New Zealand hard to fathom.

Christmas should not be in the summertime.

There should not be such things as Christmas barbies on the beach.

Where Kiwis wear shorts and jandals and sunblock.

Where they dress as Santa, in sunnies and surf shorts.

As they play cricket and rugby in the sand.

No, Christmas should be cold; very, very cold.

And if you’ve been very, very good?

Christmas should be white.

With Bing Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-ing.

But here we be, in little ol’ NZ, and Christmas is upon us.

And our own traditions hold court.

Tonight, we decorated the tree, and the wee dogs…










Serenaded by Bing Crosby’s White Christmas.

And by No. 1 son.

Wailing out a jazz funk version of James Taylor’s “Steamroller.”

Because that’s how we roll Down Under.

The GM Finance has the inside of the house spotless.

The turkey and laksa and sangria are about to be made.

Laksa and sangria?

HoHoHo white boy.

The outside of the house is as spic and span as possible.

In a land where Mother Nature can gobble your abode overnight.

I spent yesterday on the roof, degunking the picture windows and awnings.

And, gulp, I boldly despidered two sides of the house.

Note: the word “spider” and “Christmas” should NOT be allowed in the same blog.

Yeepers, they give me the creeps.

Tomorrow I will shop and wrap and stuff Junior’s stocking.

Then we’ll race off to the first Christmas party of the season.

Ours is set for Sunday.

It will either be “just for the immediate family”.

Or possibly for every Chinese in New Zealand.

Not telling the husband which?

Is part of the Christmas tradition.

HoHoHo, Okie.

So I will fill up the BBQ’s gas bottle.

Preparing to cook enough grub for one and all.

And I don’t care what anybody says.

I’ll intentionally burn the first sausage.

Like I always do.

And from way up high on the deck?

I will toss it down to the ground.

And think of the Moosedawg Reindeer.

Happily wearing his antlers.

Greedily burning his mouth on the sausage.

For the 10,000th time.


I will sweat because it’s summer.

And I will drink to his memory.

I will cater to the guests.

And when there is a moment to stop being busy.

I will think of Christmas in Oklahoma.

At Moew’s and Aunt Mackie’s.

But most of all, I will think of a wee, small baby.

Born amongst the farm animals.

To save the world.

Jesus is the reason for the season.

Merry Christmas, ya’ll.

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