It's December in New Zealand.

A slight variation on something a friend of mine was asked by an American - "When it's June in America is it December in New Zealand?".

The answer, of course, is "yes". Well, almost. When it is July 8th in America, it is December 25th at our house.

The thought process behind this slight bending of the calendar was inspired by my inability to get into the festive spirit at Christmas, for the simple reason that I couldn't get my head around Christmas being during the summer. For me, and for many of us Northern Hemisphere-ites, at Christmas it should be dark, dank, cold, wet, and downright miserable. An ideal excuse to shut yourself in the house and eat & drink way too much whilst watching dubious 'sitcoms' & old films. Just what those pagan folk were thinking when they invented it...

So, we came up with the genius idea of having a birthday christmas, seeing as my birthday has also transformed from a summer BBQ event to a wintery sludge. Hooray! Of course I forgot the vital element - I don't usually actually have to organise or do any of the work at Christmas, that's what mums do. Then, I decided that it should be split into two elements - a couple of mates over for lunch and a party in the evening. Has anyone actually done this on Christmas Day? No. Why? Because it is knackering and almost impossible to be jovial & sociable for that long (approximately 14 hours...)

Being MY Christmas I then decided I wanted to be all flash & roast a goose for lunch, just because I'd never done that before. But my plans were thwarted when I discovered that you cannot buy goose in NZ. No idea why, you just can't. Turkey isn't too common either outside the actual festive season (when Jo asked one supermarket assistant if they sold turkey he looked at her blankly and said "but it isn't Christmas".). Luckily, el fancio butchers shop in town sells boned, rolled & stuffed turkey, so panic averted. Phew.

Friday 7th July saw the early morning arrival of Jo Ecclestone, 'fresh' off the overnight bus from Auckland, and she was immediately thrown into a day of faffing about, collecting aforementioned turkey, making egg-nog & gluewein, and decorating. By the evening we had almost convinced ourselves it was really Christmas Eve - yes, we are that gullible. Up & at 'em the next morning, we steeled ourselves for the day ahead by watching "Olive, the other reindeer" on DVD & playing dodgy Bing Crosby christmas songs, peeling potatoes and being merry. I was forced to open my present a day early (my birthday isn't actually until the 9th) - a fine set of Global kitchen knives, which are terrifyingly sharp - and lunch went relatively well despite the oven pissing about and taking about an hour longer to cook everything than I had planned. I decided to skip the traditional apologising for the lateness of lunch & went straight into arsey "you'll get your bloody food when it's ready" mode. It seemed to work.

So, lunch over, we whiled away the afternoon watching "The Vicar of Dibley", "The Great Escape" & playing Trivial Pursuit, until someone got out the Live Aid DVD and much very bad singing began. One guest, being a mere 27 years old, was most bemused and traumatised us all by admitting to having never heard of The Thompson Twins. The horror.

By the time our evening guests started appearing, at about 8pm, we were fairly 'merry'. Most people, being under the impression it was a normal party, arrived after 9pm by which time I was knackered & decided upon the 'steer them to the kitchen, give them a drink and then head back to the sofa & let them fend for themselves' tactic. I hope it worked. It was always effective in London, let's hope it travels. The rest of the evening is a blur of red wine, crisps, pickled onions, loud music, sofa hand-jiving, Gertie trying to pretend there was no one there and sleeping, varying degrees of inebriation & lots of laughing. Jo E commented that it was just like our parties in London, but people seemed less drunk. Must have been the lack of Scandinavians or Vicky/Keiran/Sib...

As is traditional at my parties, I called an end to proceedings by going to bed & hoping that everyone else would get the hint. It worked.

The next day consisted of a very long dog walk - to the Mount Vic lookout & back - "The Sound of Music" and lasagne.

5 days later & I'm still tired. Is it because I am 36 now? Or just because I am crap?