Ode to not doing it

What is it about christmas? Three wise men, a baby in a box of hay and a wandering star? Or endless parties, feverish activity and total exhaustion? I don’t do christmas. There’s a long history of not doing it in my family or doing it too much, depending if you look at the paternal or the maternal side. My dad excelled at reading in the bedroom on the holy day. Mum went all out. Presents stacked to the gunnels of the fake christmas tree and roast turkey in the next door neighbour’s oven because it was too big for ours.

I’m erring on the side of total exhaustion already and I don’t even shop! Not the regular type anyway. My aunty reminded me of my dumpster-diving days today. I’m still up for gleaning but I haven’t been head up in a skip for a while now. Living in France got me out of the habit. The dumpsters were thin on the ground and my vegie patch was prolific. When I returned to Australia I started digging in the sharehouse backyard and now I’m waiting for my zucchinis to mature. But I appreciate the efforts of all good recyclers everywhere. May your christmas findings be perfect in every way. Abundant, in date and at the top of the skip.


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