Whistler Apology

I’m sorry we fought, Whistler.

Since my last post, the snow started falling, the food started improving, and the bears have started shitting again.

So I’m happily exhausted from skiing, my belt is extended a notch, and order is restored to the forest.

Nice save Whistler, I should never have doubted you. You came good, old friend. You’ll always be Smurfy in my eyes, aye.

I have since scooted over to Montreal for some secret squirrel shit. Can’t discuss here, as I don’t want to jinx. But stay tuned.

Anyhow, as you know, I’m about to visit family in Australia for Christmas for first time in a few years. I’ll be leaving a Canadian Winter, where the temperature has been sitting at around -20°C (-4°F) and heading to an Australian Summer where the daytime temperature will average around 35°C (>95°F). That’s over a 50°C fucking turnaround! Out of the freezer and straight into the oven.

Now this is where my jetsetting lifestyle gets tough. Don’t cry for me, it’s still freakin’ awesome, but when packing a suitcase in London for a trip to Whistler, followed by a trip Down Under, it can become a little challenging to get the mix right.

Thermals – check.

Gloves – check.

Ski jacket – check.

Mankini – check.

The only common denominator is underwear. Well, and the mankini, obviously.

So I’m about to board a flight from Vancouver to LA to Brisbane with my brother and sister and their partners. When I say, “with” that’s not technically true. I’ll be in First Class, they’ll be in Coach. I’m going to feel wracked with guilt… right up until the time I wipe away my troubles with a hot refresher towel, followed by Salmon Rilette and a nice Laurent-Perrier.

I’m really looking forward to catching up with my folks for the first time in a very long time, although I know I’m going to be grilled about the lack of grandkids. I don’t know what will kill me first, climate change or the Spanish Inquisition. Is it wrong to pray for a tsunami?

Anyway, the standard Christmas routine is a quiet drink on Christmas Eve. Followed by a slightly louder drink. And then a bunch of rowdy ones. Shit, we are Australian.

On Christmas morning, we stagger downstairs, crank the air conditioning down to 20°C and exchange gifts and quiet pleasantries. Christmas lunch is usually a diverse culinary affair – a mix of hot and cold and traditional and local fare. Turkey and cranberries at one end of the table. Prawns, oysters and lobster at the other. My folks are in the restaurant business, so the spread is always top drawer.

The rest of the day will be spent sipping, snacking and swimming, consecutively or concurrently. And raping the family at open face Chinese poker.

In fact I must say, there are few things more satisfying, than the first mouthful of beer on a stonking hot Queensland day. James Squire, I look forward to you being inside me.

Somewhere between now and then though, I have to fit in the world’s worst chore. Christmas shopping on the Gold Coast. As Ford Fairlane so eloquently said, “It’s like masturbating with a cheese grater – slightly amusing, but mostly painful”.

Wish me luck, I’m going to need bucket loads.

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