Happy new year, everyone! Welcome to the year 2010, which began at exactly midnight on 1 January; being, of course, the 2,010th anniversary of the resurrection and celebrated by people of all races around the world.

In the Fielding household our Christmas celebrations always begin on the eve of the big day itself, with lots of carols singing and hot Milo. Our house is decorated with tinsel and plastic leaves and we always have a great big Christmas tree in the lounge room. The tree, of course, a highly symbolic symbol of the death. Under the tree are lots and lots of presents from Susan to me, Susan to the kids, the kids to Susan, and Susan to Susan (I get Susan to buy her own presents from me because of that time I was in that big crowd of people doing Christmas shopping and I felt a bit funny and I curled up up on the floor in the foetal position screaming and hit that security guard until that nice policeman came.)

At midnight we all head off to church for mass, solemnly commemorating the tragic crucifixion of Santa on 25 December in the year takeaway one. As we all know, on that fateful night, Santa, while out delivering presents to the good boys and girls of planet earth, had a terrible accident in his sleigh, fell out of the sky, and died in a tree. For the next six days the world was in shock and there was chaos, pillaging and looting, and lots of people got into fistfights (hence the name “Boxing Day”.) Nobody knew what to do and the children in particular were in quite a state, so lots of men dressed up as Santa and flocked to public places, pretending to be the real Santa, to try and calm the children down – which is why we continue with the tradition of men dressing up as Santa to this day.

But all was not lost. Six days later, of course, at the stroke of midnight on 1 January, 0000, Santa came back alive and walked out of a cave to the shock of some onlookers, jumping back into his magic sleigh and riding his reindeer back to the North Pole. And all was well with the world and the children were going to have their presents again. A fine reason to celebrate new year’s day each year.

This year on Christmas day I decided to do something really special for my kids and re-enact Santa’s death and crucifixion. But first I needed a Santa suit. A few weeks before the holidays I went down to the local $2 shop and bought every single red texta they had in stock. Then I spent an hour each night (locked in the garage so the kids couldn’t see) colouring in my bottle suit. By Christmas eve I had myself a red suit and a fake beard and wig I bought from a dress up shop. Except they didn’t have a white wig so it was blonde, and they didn’t have a beard so I got a moustache.

As midnight approached on Christmas eve, with Susan and the kids in the lounge room watching Ray Martin on the telly (I’ve got one of his classic carols performances from the ’90s on VHS), I carefully climbed up on to the roof. Counting down with my wristwatch, I jumped at exactly midnight off the roof and into the tree beside the lounge room window. Unfortunately, Susan and the kids had already gone to mass. I waited in the tree, hanging upside down with my pants leg caught on a branch, until they got home an hour or so later, but the lounge room curtain was closed so they couldn’t see me.

The next morning I finally caught Susan’s attention by throwing sticks at the front door. After she got me down we all opened up our presents, and even though I didn’t get the Playstation 3 I asked Santa for when I got my photo with him at the local shops, I was careful not to let my disappointment show. The kids were really happy with their gifts and Susan loved the whatever it was she bought herself from me. I couldn’t see it through the tears.

On new year’s eve it was time for the resurrection part of my surprise, so at 11:30pm, with the Fielding residence annual new year’s party in full swing, I donned my Santa suit (I fixed up the rips in it with sticky tape) and hid in the cupboard. Counting down on my wristwatch, I burst out at exactly midnight from the cupboard and yelled, “I’m alive!” at the top of my lungs. Unfortunately, everyone was outside watching the fireworks except for great aunt Patty whose wheelchair won’t go down the front stairs and whose eyesight is so poor she couldn’t see the fireworks anyway. She said I was a very attractive young man, even though long hair wasn’t the style in her day, and would I like a nip of her brandy that she hides right here in her bra. She made me promise not to tell Susan.

Until next time.