The Curmudgeon's family have started arriving for Hexmas. They aren't just a tribe... they are several amalgamated tribes. There appear to be several hundred children orbiting the two primary parents, but that is an illusion fostered by their speedy and erratic movement and that they bear six heads of matching white-blonde hair. I can't remember which is which, let alone keep track of them... I have to stop and count out loud to see whether there has been a net gain or loss after any particular burst of energy.

I have been a bit of a princess (moi?) about the descent of his family because I'm very fond of my livebird-centric and comfortable existence where I can fully indulge my Curmudgeonettely tendencies and curse Christmas and all that it stands for. But I must recant. The kids are nice. They are bright and friendly and curious. They were looking after one another rather than running feral and brandishing weapons. It was very cool to see them stare, mouths gaping, at everyday Melbourne stuff like wacky buskers and public art, in the way that only the very young or very regional can do (and they are both). The Pater Familias arrives this evening.

Truth be told, I have always been a little bit jealous of folks who had large and unruly families who filled every moment of time in late December. But most of all, the Curmudgeon is pleased and proud to introduce me to his tribe, and I'm pretty lucky for that. Not that previous love interests have hidden me in a cupboard or made me wear a paper bag on my head, but it's been a while since someone was so genuinely delighted to have me hanging about. 'Tis a privilege and I mustn't be so flippant about it.