Two young men from Germany dine with us. I do not count the empty beer bottles afterwards. We still have the Christmas tree up; both approach it with a look of shining wonder and sentimental capitulation. C. is not impressed by Australians pretending to have a European Christmas but I tell him that we’re all migrants here and the trappings are part of the mental baggage we bring along. It may be false but at least it’s true to us. A. sniffs the pine needles. These smell of soap to him. He dislikes the local eggs because they taste of fish. In Germany, they mix sawdust into the chicken meal - “I prefer to eat eggs that taste of wood,” he says. Our guests walk around with no shoes on, so I guess they really feel at home. And they are not shy when it comes to food. (Mmm, takes me back…) Port, however, does not prove to be too popular. Nigh on midnight I drop them off in the city to find their own way home to the stars.

[Diarised first week one January]

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