When unsure, listen to Nebraska, drink gin and tonic and then launch right in. Heartened by Bruce and the support of the Colquhouns I return.

Christmas is family. A family of foxes is making forays from the bouganvillea and the dogs are nocturnally huffy.

Christmas is a church full of strangers while we finish Scrabble and wrap presents. Christmas is always forgetting the gift cards. Christmas is a road trip. Christmas, unusually, is sleeping under the doona, screen doors open for dogs to come and go. How green was my valley? A proper afternoon sleep, no sweat at the neck, and waking to the sound of ham being carved. The sparkly eyes and impossibly high pants of Bing Crosby.

Boxing day is kangaroos that are ochre statues in the shade, so still the dog can't seem to smell them. Watching us watching them. Boxing day is the Aussies batting first, old friends dropping by.

And before? There's a whole world out there. Air travel emotions. Sarah Blasko sings: I was only clearing my throat. Bloody Marys before lunch. Noonie's exhaustion tumbles in tears through the floor to the sea below. Confusion makes crimson lace on her neck.

And before that? We're in the pub drinking Tooheys Old, black like the alternate tiles on the floor. Then we're at a pine table, nine of us, eating John Dory and trying not to talk about work. Chris says Lisa looks like a Japanese garden. She takes it as a compliment. I think it's because her necklace suggests smooth grey stones. Gina talks of serenity.

And before that? I walk across the park, an umbrella crooked over my wrist lest the threatening clouds keep their word. It's from lost property, the umbrella, and is shaped like banana palm. I'm coming fast from the hospital. Rushing at first, feeling late and then slowing so as not to be the first in that front bar. After dinner we're hugging beneath the gum trees and saying Kevin 07 as a kind of farewell.

And after that? We're drinking whiskey, booking travel insurance, wondering if we're keeping Ed awake and smelling rain on the bitumen. Then I'm shoving clothes in a bag too small and thinking about black tights and sleeves with off-kilter colours over the top. Quite soon I'm unpacking that bag on the floor of the terminal.

And way before that? Neil Finn. Boondal. We walk under orange light with our hoods on to keep our hair dry and straight. He's playing around. He talks of the soft rain coming down outside and we know he has a sense of place, if we didn't know already. The first song. Time is on the table and the dinner's cold. And he's slight. Almost as thin as the black tie he's wearing. Suddenly the rhythm is all. Drums at the end of Private Universe fade away. As he sings I cry. Not like making yourself cry in Year 10 when Goose dies during Top Gun. Completely involuntary. Talent. Poetry. Perception. Imagery. There's not one reference to Hester but he's there.

A slow boat made of China going nowhere on the mantlepiece. Going nowhere. So dumbly literal. Going somewhere and expecting resolution.

And now? There's an airport below us. What if we just went there instead? What if? Clooney's voice. The voice is the thing. Michael Cohen is the poor man's Brad Pitt? White blonde hair, kind of fluffy.

And right now? Good friends are blood relations that you choose. Remember it and let the mind be quiet.