I refuse to write on Australia Day.
Not because I don’t want to, but because it would be very un-Australian to work on our sunburnt country’s rostered day off.
January 26th is the day where carefully assembled pavlovas melt in the soaring Aussie sun and diets go down the drain along with the badly poured beer without a head on it.
Competitive spirits awaken by a kick of the Sherrin, a swing of the Wilson racquet or a beach volleyball bump pass, converting couch potatoes into sporting sensations with a swig of beer and a selfie stick.
Odd sofa settees slovenly grace front lawns as slang words dribble from our tongues and Mental as Anything MUST blare loudly and repeatedly.
You can smell sizzling snags from breakfast until sunset in any suburban street and everyone has a barbecue to go to. After all, what else will you do with an esky full of grog, a cricket set and the servo’s last bag of ice in your car boot?
Australian flags fly full mast, draped, hung, stapled or painted to any visible vantage point in a patriotic symbol of love for our wide brown land.
We celebrate hard and we jam pack the day tighter than a pair of jeans after a packet of Tim Tams. Alas, once the day is done, our great southern land – the one with her far horizons and jewel seas – is still the one for me.
KS x
KSediting 