Discovering your pockets of perfect.

So that was Christmas.

Bows are unwrapped. Turkey’s unstuffed. Now what?

Well, for me I gotta reflect on the last 24 hours because it’s so easy to get caught up in this season’s lust for perfection and high expectations. It’s also my antidote to the cloying desperation for making everything just-so this time of year.

Was the grazing platter big enough? Did we take 1,000 photos flaunting the endless lunchtime spreads? How many grins did we share online to prove how loved up, happy or gifted we are at grilling that octopus?

And was the most important mouth – the social feed – fed?

Competing with performative Christmases is a fool’s errand. Where are the bickering in-laws and simmering grudges? Give me more cured ham than curated happy snaps, please.

My little family and I had a fantastically imperfect day yesterday. A booking mix-up had us enjoying a buffet in a venue that time forgot complete with patrons in festive fashion that ranged from loose activewear to jumpers that read: Ho, Ho, Holy Sh** I Need A Beer.

But we laughed until we cried when our conversations were drowned out by distorted Christmas music blaring from dusty speakers. And watched in wonder as my 95-year-old mother scored a kiss from the Greek club manager – she’d only just met.

Just like Santa’s huge appetite for stale cookies and curdled milk, there is no such thing as perfection, but ‘pockets of perfect’? ‘Tis the season for sleighfuls of those.

Merry Everything to you, friend.