January 2020

I must say that 2020 has a nice ring to it: I do so like symmetry. Let us hope for a year in which good things happen, and outweigh the bad. The BBC, as you would expect, showed excerpts from the Queen’s speech on the news, and she, as dignified and sensible as ever, referred to 2019 as involving a somewhat bumpy path. And she wasn’t wrong. Poor woman: I can’t imagine she ever wanted Brexit, and certainly can’t have wanted the political mess that preceded it. And of course another protracted mess is just beginning. Added to which: who could possibly cope with the irreparably stupid Prince Andrew at any stage and age, let alone at 93?

It is hard to know what to say about Australia’s own mess. Protracted drought, terrible and terrifying bush fires with all their consequences, and political bungling of the first order. However, I could have plenty to say about Prime Minister Scott Morrison, but I like to think that this is a family column. However, I can at least point out that the money he paid an empathy consultant (I ask you!) was clearly wasted. If he had learned anything from lessons, counselling sessions, whatever, he would not have bunked off to Hawaii for hols with Jen and the girls while Eastern Australia was going up in flames. A prolonged Twitter storm has resulted. And so has a wonderful new nickname: Scotty from Marketing. So apt. Old Scotty likes to pretend that he takes no notice of Twitter, but my infallible bones tell me that he takes a lot of notice, really. 

I enjoy Twitter, not that I Tweet very often. I’m hardly like the British octogenarian who got the bug and amassed 7000 plus followers before she died. She earned herself a report in the Sunday Times, and a witty journalist wrote that the old woman was now in the Tweet by and by. You have to hand it to (some) journalists. STOP PRESS. Said Twitter has just treated (?) a waiting Australian public to the photographed sight of Old Scotty after he had braved the briny at Bronte beach in Sydney. Really, spare us the spectacle of overweight middle-aged men in brief Speedos: there comes a time in a man’s life when boxer or board shorts are the only suitable beach attire.

Yes, I enjoy Twitter as a source of information I wouldn’t otherwise get and as providing some amusement quite often. But I’m a sweet, old-fashioned thing, so do not enjoy what my generation used to call bad language. Now certain words are very common, and do not raise an eyebrow among the young, but I admit to flinching when I read them; I don’t imagine I will ever become accustomed to reading them and then reacting badly. Other things I deplore are the chronically bad spelling and the muddles over homonyms. Well, the English language is plagued by homonyms, I admit. But I flinch again when I see bazaar used instead of bizarre, for example. And today somebody tweeted about his diseased parents. One assumes he meant deceased.

I’m pleased to report a very happy Christmas. I was prepared to cook, but youngest son Alexander decided it would be too much trouble for me, and so we went out. (And I suddenly remembered that my mother and aunt reached a stage at which they decided they were past cooking up the Christmas storm. Instead, they used to save up for about three months ahead, and both families used to have a slap-up Christmas meal at a posh place in the Dandenongs.)

We ourselves repaired to a very pleasant restaurant in Kalamata, and ate delicious variations on the usual Christmas fare: my dish was chicken pieces in a sweet and sour sauce, a rather rare taste sensation in this neck of the olive groves. Orestes, who is now 6, and 3-year-old Natalia were perfectly behaved and made short work of their keftethes (meat balls) and heaps of chips. The sun was shining over the main square: just right for a post-prandial merry-go-round ride, a treat provided by Granny/Yiayia, who has fond memories of her own such rides. Then it was back home for trad Xmas cake, which I persist in cooking every year. It is never the same twice, but always disappears.

And now everybody is gearing up for New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, which is an important feast day in the Orthodox Church: St Basil’s Day, when Greek children traditionally receive their presents. Conscientious housewives are preparing the Vasilopita, the New Year cake, which contains a lucky coin and is always cut on New Year’s Eve. Of course at midnight. Coin or not, I’ll be wishing for all bush fires to stop Down Under, and for 2020 to be a far better year internationally. I also want refugees to be released from detention; in particular, I want the Sri Lankan family with those Australian-born little girls to leave Christmas Island and to be returned to their home in Biloela, Queensland.

Then I’ll consider it a genuinely happy New Year.