It overtakes you like a slow tsunami that builds invisibly out on the distant horizon of August.
From there it gathers power, growing taller and stronger until December arrives in a white froth — then CRASH!
The giant wave breaks, and Christmas dumps you like a gasping fish on the scorching sand.
It’s a force of nature; you know it’s coming, so you might as well get on with it.
When you’re caught in a rip, the best advice is to go with the flow.
So, I put up some twinkling lights in the crepe myrtle outside our front door.
It took three boys aged from six to 10 years supervised by a Christmas veteran — their grandfather — a whole morning to wind a line of tiny lights through the spindly myrtle branches.
A nine-year-old’s genetic urge to climb a tree is a marvellous thing to behold and a powerful reminder of just what 60 years of chair life can do to the human body.
The remaining thread of lights was wrapped around the tree trunk and a matchbox-sized solar panel stuck in the ground.
As the sun travelled its daily arc around the front yard, I had to get off my chair and re-plant the little solar panel three times.
Then at night, the little tree glowed like a beacon of warmth and love in a chintzy nightclub sort of way.
Only we could see it because it was hidden from the street.
But it didn’t matter, it was my contribution to the spirit of Christmas, and it felt good.
But my generosity cup wasn’t filled yet. Next came the lounge room Christmas tree.
The plastic tree and boxes of tinsel and more coloured lights were taken down from the cupboard’s top shelf.
I nearly fell off the steps like a wobbly old bloke, but I composed myself enough to stay upright and set an example of energy and commitment for the kids.
Half an hour later there it was – a two-metre-tall bling-splattered replica of a Norwegian fir tree.
Next, on the front door I put up a Christmas wreath. It promptly fell on my hatless head, giving me two bleeding stab wounds.
Payback I suppose for my cynicism and false cheer.
Finally, our nine-year-old found a small box with tiny porcelain figures inside.
I looked at him as he set them up carefully on the hearth of the fireplace.
There they all were — the shepherds, the wise men, the angel, the lamb and the donkey, Joseph and Mary and their little baby.
He placed them all in a semi-circle with great care. He knew their significance.
We don’t go to church, we don’t repeat the incantations or shoulder the ancient guilt, but he knew the little figures told his story, that he was part of a family with dogs and cows and sheep and kind people that love him and his brothers.
It’s the story of humanity and how we all fit in to a vaster circle that spirals out to the edge of our known universe and beyond.
And so once again I was reminded, appropriately by a child, that this is the story of Christmas.
It’s not about presents, food, trees, baubles and lights.
It’s about people and the circles they create.
Not all of us have a loving family, or even friends — but Christmas is still a time to celebrate and give thanks that we all belong to the vaster circle.
This year I hope you enjoy your circle, however big or small.
31°C