If I had to choose one thing on earth to magically write out of existence, or warp into a parallel dimension, or failing everything aim billions of very tiny ICBMs at, it would be Christmas cards. Or, more specifically, Australian Christmas cards. My hackles usually go up around September, when the shops get flooded, and they don't go down until after Boxing Day, when I can finally dispose of any I may have received with a dark smile and possibly a match and some hairspray. Because Christmas cards in Australia represent the biggest fantasy on the face of our planet.
They have snow on them, and cute little robins leaving tracks in the snow. They have cosy images of a candle in a window lighting up the soft storm outside. They have, God help me, pictures of Santa rugged up against the cold. But what they do not have, and probably never will have, is anything actually resembling Christmas. Now I can hear you Northern Hemisphere apologists crying that Christmas and winter are inextricably