Sunday, 28 February 2016


There are lots of family habits which just by sheer repetition become tradition. Some of these make absolutely no sense at all like the 'tradition' that girls use the rake and the boys use the motor mower, this was my lovely Dad's sexist idea that women were good for bending over and sweeping and men were good at anything that had an engine. He and Jeremy Clarkson would have hit it off wonderfully well.

The Sunday Roast tradition in the UK which until recently, had been installed as the stuff of legend here too. I mean I see that in the UK, in the winter, if going to the local pub and sitting by the real fire and hoovering up roasted meat and all the trimmings at lunch time, which of course is in the middle of the afternoon, means that there is no cooking later on in the evening, then that's a good thing. But I think supper was always on offer and that just really delays the putting up of the feet and the veging in front of the tellie and the trying to forget about work-a-day-monday. And all too often the Sunday roast is prepared by the household cook, mostly the little woman and it's served up to the men folk as they tumble home, mostly pissed from the local and once the food is done the sober one - again usually the woman, gets to clean up all the mess cos there's work tomorrow - yeh I know, wasn't all that work too?

Steve immigrated to Oz and in best migrant form he brought with him some of his homeland traditions, and the sunday roast was one of 'em. I am the cook of the house, but if he wanted to bugger up my cheese toast sunday night tradition, and replace it with a roast dinner, then he had to learn to cook it himself, and boy did he! His roast dinner is bloody marvelous!

When I was a kid, the birthday person got to choose the menu for dinner and got the first bit of cake and was made a fuss of all day long. There were always parcels unwrapped at a silly hour on the bed. Perhaps because there were 3 kids, birthday parties were few and far between and I think that the memory of that lead me to my own tradition with my girl of a big wing ding every year. They were a long time in the planning and the cake making and the games prep and then traditionally I would be rooted by the end cos it's in the heat of February and it nearly always pissed down as a blessed relief in the afternoon. The style of the parties changed but party we did.

Today is a break in our tradition. For the first time Zig is not at home for his party. For the first time Bell and I are not being run raggered entertaining and feeding all those short people. Oh sure Bell has outdone herself making a Tardis Cake cos Dr Who is the flavour of the month, and there will no doubt be parcels when he gets home and there will be a sort of consolation dinner party at the local steaks joint tomorrow night with cake and candles and a coupla a mates, and the cakie sweeties are set for tomorrow's school visit, but I am missing the exhausting tradition and I know my Girl is sad about it too.

Change is inevitable, but sometimes it just gives me the shits.

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