The first Saturday in December is Saint Nick's, a chance for his (massive) family to gather and celebrate the
Dutch traditional Christmas thingy before the real Christmas . A chance for the guys to hoon around the paddocks on home-made go-karts, and the usual family-gathering stuff.
We got there early, being the elves who sort the presents, and us girls manoeveured the logistical nightmare of lugging boxes and boxes and boxes of presents from one end of the farm to the other (dodging go-karts, little kids and little kids on go-karts) before the arrival of St Nick. At least we didn't have to do the cleaning this year.
Because the day was organised last-minute for some unknown reason, we had no Swart Piet (Black Peter) until Charissa volunteered to doll herself up in thick black greasepaint and weild a bamboo switch with which to beat people.
Saint Nick and Swart Piet made their way to the house in the back of a tractor (aah, Aussie spin) and while us elveses handed bags in through the windows, ensuring that every adult and (more importantly) every kid got a bag of booty from St Nick. Pelting people with lollies, assuming the "Five Cougars Please" barmaid possie behind the bar, t'was all good. (Mind you, some of the people there had
very shrill voices - I don't think my eardrums will ever be the same).
Then my name was called. Last year, I was admonished by Saint Nick:
"If you're a bad girl, you'll have to go out and buy a pram." (what the?!)
This year, because he'd seen me beavering away with the organising committee and proclaimed me a good girl.
The BBQ was fired up, copious amounts of food and drink were consumed, go-karts were hooned around on (including "Thomas" the ginormous blue TANK of a go-kart!), photos were taken, and before we knew it, evening and rainclouds were closing in, and it was time to go home. To collapse in a crumpled heap on the couch vowing never to move again.
Oh, and we put up our Christmas tree on Friday night.
Shiny...
