Here I am, sitting in my kitchen on Christmas Eve, smelling the Beouf Bourguignon in the oven, watching Midnight In Paris.
A few hours ago, I spoke to my Mum and Dad in Adelaide, a long way away. It was a short call, that basically ended in tears of distance. Mum escaped… almost before her tears, but I heard them. I was hiding mine. Not well. There was the chance to talk to the wider family in a few hours, at that Christmas lunch I (still) know so well, but, it's too hard.
I started watching Midnight In Paris as I pottered around beginning to prepare the beef for tomorrow's lunch. (Which smells bloody good now, by the way.) Then the door bell rang. It was the lovely Michele and the lovely Aaron. They'd heard my "Oof. Tough call with home" missive and come to the call.
We had beer/wine as we chatted. Michele tried to pat Niner, who's always elusive, at least so far in his short life. Aaron encouraged me to just plop the whole bottle of beaujolais into the stew, which I have.
Midnight In Paris so far appears to be an odd tribute to Paris as well as a slightly more unsettling appeal to romantic love. Owen Wilson is playing Woody Allen. That's odd.
I'm looking forward to tomorrow, hosting lunch for a small party, plus beef and ham, firewood, and hopefully competitive Secret Santa, but, as always when I'm not in Adelaide, feel so far from home.
More to come. I've been thinking very much about writing here more.