Whew, that was something. Woken at sunrise by the sound of other people's kids riding new bicycles in the street, or the pleadings of kids from your own tribe to please get up now so we can open the presents.
The gifts all bought and wrapped under the tree. A real one, found at the last minute at a roadside stall, not too big please, and I would prefer a $60 tree but I guess I'll have to pay $80. Or a fake – a singing, dancing plush Christmas tree from a downmarket department store. Either way, it worked out.
Sitting through the blur of present unwrapping with your best oh-just-what-I-wanted face on and then eating breakfast on the floor of the living room surrounded by a blizzard of torn paper and twisted festive ribbon – a glass of champagne with a strawberry floating in it or an Aperol spritz and a slice of panettone. Not so bad.
The rest of the morning passing in a warm fuzz of champagne-slash-spritz, until people drove across town to you for lunch or you drove across town to someone else for lunch.
And lunch not a disaster. Either the traditional Australian – crayfish, salads, something on the barbecue, a butcher's ham ordered in October, pavlova (square this year, not round), preceded by Aperol spritz and washed down by beer, wine and more champagne; or the traditional traditional – a turkey with all the trimmings that was so big it needed a new oven to cook it, followed by pudding and trifle and preceded by Aperol spritz and washed down with beer, wine and yet more champagne.
The talk during lunch jolly, until someone – an uncle, a cousin, your sister's new boyfriend – said something off-colour about same-sex marriage/asylum seekers/sexual politics in the 2017 workplace right on cue ("I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking") and everyone at the table fell uncomfortably silent. Perfect.
But just for a minute: bonhomie was restored (maybe not for your sister) with a round of espressos from the new machine and a shot of Christmas limoncello (who cares if Italians don't drink limoncello with coffee?) Even the politics can't derail Christmas.
And after that it was all a blur, falling asleep in front of the TV or at the movies (The Disaster Artist or the new Star Wars, but not Detroit, please, with its half-hour scene of police brutality).
You made it. You did Christmas again. Put your feet up, have a slice of cold ham and relax. There's plenty of time – 364 Christmas-free days to go.
Matt Holden is an Age columnist.
