Christmas yesterday for me was one of the all time great Christmasses. Everything went brilliantly. We started with a picnic at Point Ormond, letting the breeze coming off the bay keep us cool in the heat. When it got too hot and windy to stop the food blowing around the park or to keep playing cricket, we retired back to my mum’s place to open presents, drink cold drinks, eat more food, and generally make a mess.

There’s just one thing that put a dampner on Christmas. Among the great presents I got this year (hardly a dud among the huge pile) was a bunch of chocolates and other assorted small things from my mum in a box. The chocolates got mixed up with everything else. Later, away from the maddening crowd, I started to eat the chocolates. Most were wrapped. I found a Coke bottle-shaped one which looked okay. I snapped off a bit. It looked very chocolatey. I put it in my mouth.

Hmmm… odd taste. Liquorice? No. Soap. My mouth froze up, and I ran to the bathroom to participate in ten minutes of spitting, rinsing, toothbrushing, flossing and anything else I could think of to get the taste out of my mouth.

None of those worked fully. In the end I was forced to resume eating chocolate (realchocolate) to get rid of the taste.

Last night I found myself with a couple of mates enjoying a concert at the Central Club in Richmond. It started with the support to the support: a band I’d never heard of and have now forgotten the name of. John and I were listening to each song, trying to decide which other act they were trying to sound like.

Then the support came on: the legendary Paul Kelly. A bunch of classic songs, but given that the date was the 21st of December, the one the crowd was waiting for was "How To Make Gravy", which includes a line about it being the 21st of December. It’s Paul’s Christmas song. The way he tells the story of how he wrote it is interesting.

Apparently he was doing a song for a Christmas charity album. He was going to do a traditional song, but someone else had bagsied it. So he wrote his own. When he was finished, he rang up the organiser.

"I’ve got this song for the Christmas album. But it’s got no chorus and it’s about a bloke in jail."

"I think I’d better come over and hear it."

And they let him do it.

Then it was time for the main act: the soon-retiring Weddings Parties Anything. They came on, and for the first thirty seconds or so everyone was quiet as they started with a slow bit of music. Suddenly they burst into action, and so did the crowd. We found ourselves in the middle of a hot and sweaty pub crowd, moshing, crowd surfing, singing along and jumping up and down and just generally having a geat time.

You have two choices in this situation: withdraw to a quieter part of the pub, or get into it. Well, Raoul disappeared somewhere into the background, but John and I got into it. By the time the night finished at 1am, we were worn out, sweaty, shoes thoroughly unshiny, and had enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.

My boss is a pretty good guy, but he’s the type who gets stressed easily. I think it’s because he manages to involve himself in virtually every aspect of his company, down to the kind of level of detail which strictly speaking he doesn’t really need to worry about.

Well, on Thursday night he had a heart attack. Just a minor one, he’s recuperating in the hospital now. And it’s funny that with hindsight you can say "oh yeah, well it would happen to him, wouldn’t it." And you suddenly start thinking about your own lifestyle. Maybe you should relax a bit more. Get some more exercise. Not eat so much crappy food.

But then, a few hours pass and the sense of panic dissipates, and you go ahead and eat the hamburger and all the chocolate anyway.

A couple of years ago, I had a regular TCWF feature called "Moron of the Week". It showcased a particularly moronic driver I’d seen on the roads that week. People liked it, but I got tired of the concept. Tonight however, I spotted one.

Getting off the tram to go home, a woman in a red sports car came alongside the tram and failed to stop at the back door for me to get off (as required by law and as required to prevent hapless tram passengers such as myself being kersplatted all over the street). It stopped between the front and rear doors, and I walked around it.

A few seconds later when it and the tram took off again, I noticed in big yellow letters that it had a "For Sale" sign, with a mobile phone number.

I hummed and hahhed, and then whipped out my mobile phone for a little fun. I dialled, and the woman answered.

"Hello?"

"Are you driving the car?"

"What?"

"Are you driving the car?"

"Oh. Yes."

"Well next time, stop behind the tram. Don’t go past the door; you almost ran me over."

(Sheepish) "I know. Sorry."

"Okay. Bye."

(Still sheepish) "Bye."

Isn’t technology wonderful?