Why My Christmas was better than Martha Stewart’s.

My new slow paced existence here is helping me to understand the ebbs and flows of life. Opinions can change at the drop of hat and things that used to get my knickers all tied up in a twist, barely raise an unwaxed eyebrow. Bali does something to a person. It is like a massive dose of Xanax with a Valium chaser.

Take our little tribe living here at Villa Speranza. When I arrived, I sneered at the corn-row braided, inappropriately dressed tourists covered in fake tattoos and nasty cheap jewellery. Sneered.
Now, not only does nothing surprise me, but my niece is sporting a full head of braids complete with beads at my insistence, all the male folk have freshly minted fake tattoos (apart from Mr Woog, naturally) and Jack spent an hour at the beach yesterday selecting a small pink bracelet with a silver disc from an old lady who was delighted with her $2 sale.
Yes. Bali does something to a person.
Yesterday was Christmas Day. We usually spend our Christmas day travelling around keeping everyone happy. The highlight is my Mum’s spread. The woman can turn a tin of baked beans into something amazing. She is gifted. I miss her ham.
Yesterday was spent on the beach. The boys learnt to surf, Jack practiced saying “No thank you” to the parade of peddlers and I reread Marion Keyes “Lucy Sullivan is getting Married.” Mr Ryan got a huge tat of a nasty dragon down his arm. Mr Woog body surfed in the crystal waters.
Mrs Ryan spent the morning at the house with Bali Belly Rose.
Later that night we headed out to dinner at The Beach House at nearby Echo Beach. I even washed my face for the occasion. The only product I have used for a week is sunscreen…..
We sat around a huge table and ordered lemonades, caprioskas so strong you could use is as fake tattoo stripper, and an assortment of traditional Christmas fare such as plain cheese pizza. I had barbecued prawns while Mr Woog and Mr Ryan, in a great display of testosterone, ordered a slice off the whole pig that was slowly revolving over an open fire out the front of the restaurant. I nicknamed him Master Trotter.
All of a sudden, the slight breeze picked up. The sky turned black. Peering out the front, I noticed a massive downpour of water speeding towards us over the ocean. And in the tradition of over reactors, I yelled Hurricane!!! And I was not far off.
The staff flew into action. Walls appeared out of no-where and sealed us all in. We welcomed diners from nearby restaurants who did not have the luxury of walls. Tables popped up out of nowhere to accommodate all the extra people. And our chilled out lazy Christmas dinner became a bit of a circus. I was very pleased however when I spied two chefs running through the centre of the restaurant safely transporting Mr Trotter into the kitchen.
The Balinese DJ saw his chance at becoming the Hero that Saved Christmas and started pumping out hits from the 70’s with gay abandon which saw the entire clientele up on the dance floor, shimmying the night away while the “hurricane” whirled around us.
It was a different Christmas. And it was heaven.
How was your day?