As planned (subject naturally to inclement weather conditions which thankfully did not materialize) we shot ourselves from the lair and the apartment in good order approaching ten o’clock this morning en route to Sea King Seafood Restaurant on Merivale Road in Nepean for dim sum. We figured by getting there early enough we’d have the benefit of the handicap parking spot immediately at the front of the restaurant. It was a leisurely and predominantly private drive along the sometimes squishy (but mostly clean) roadways now fully restored from yesterday’s wintry storm. The snow on the fields was recent enough to maintain that veneer of perfection so suitable for the conjoint imaginations surrounding Christmas morning (especially of the young children whom the young parents no doubt equally delight to see transfixed by anticipation and gleeful want). Optimism is a vicarious pleasure!

While the atmosphere at Sea King (and where, by the by, someone had already beat us to the handicap parking – but we got the space immediately adjoining so it was all but a distinction without a difference) was noticeably less seasonal, and while there were fewer people at the start than in the past we have seen, the place soon became terribly busy.  The staff – though they collectively made the needless effort for evident Caucasians to express a Merry Christmas greeting – were as conspicuously dedicated to the more profitable act of clearing the table once it had been established the bill was final and there was no more to be had. As I pried myself from table and hobbled to the stairwell I encountered a mob of people waiting in line on either side of the vertiginous stairway.  They were both blocking access to the hand railings on each side.  As I stammered about attempting to circulate between the two waves of people, my first and only attempt quickly resolved me to excuse myself and instead to plough ahead along one side, an interfering arm extended to and upon the railing as further evidence of my obtrusive intention.  It worked.  The soldiers progressively stood aside and allowed me painfully to mount the stairs and remove myself from the canteen congestion. Uphill I was greeted at the breezy doorway by a similarly challenging frozen, snowy, salty walkway along which I cautiously proceeded to the car which hitherto I had imagined to have been located close to the entrance.

Overall the ephemeral buoyancy of Christmas Day has reminded me of what I believe was a social ritual conducted by Alexander Dougall’s late father. Sometime around Christmas 1967 or 1968 I flew to Jamaica to stay with Alexander in Kingston.  On Christmas morning I recall having visited Alexander’s father (who at the time was estranged from Alexander’s mother Doreen and living with another woman). He (George Dougall, the father) may have been speaking on the telephone when we entered his residence.  He, not unlike his son, spoke with that mellifluous Jamaican accent which immediately conveyed a combination of suavity and cheerfulness. His choice of language, again not unlike that of his son, was always respectful and elegant.  I remember Alexander telling me that his father was once told to step aside when arriving at Miami airport from Jamaica.  He was questioned in particular about the allegedly enormous quantity of cigars in his luggage. Mr. Dougall reportedly drew himself up and informed the custom’s inspector that each of the cigars was for his intended personal consumption throughout his stay. His retort was seemingly so convincing that the matter was passed without further interrogation. It was with that manifest dignity that Mr. Dougall conveyed his seasonal greetings to whomever he spoke on the telephone.  It was to be, as I subsequently discovered, an on-going preoccupation throughout Christmas Day and thus shaped a social product commensurate with the event. It is a habit I have since sought to cultivate myself for similar purpose and appeal. It may even be the audio vernacular of my own late father’s customary literary gift to immediate family on Christmas Day.

The grey air this Christmas Day is not one of dismay. Indeed our corporate decision to confine ourselves to home territory and private social encumbrance has proven to be a favourable one, one indeed echoed by my sister Linda when chatting with us late this afternoon. She and her husband Edward have succeeded uncharacteristically to isolate themselves from others on Christmas Day with a turkey roasting and the smell of rosemay rising from the oven. I believe we may at last have overcome the traditional familial obstructions to what otherwise is a very gentle day of languor.

Christmas Card country image pdf