It’s 5.30 pm on New Year’s Day. Michael and I are sitting at the picnic table under the huge rowan tree in our backyard. The air is thick with heat, citronella, and our lethargy. We had a good Christmas and New Year’s, our kids at ten and thirteen young enough to embrace the magic of it all. End-of-school parties rolling into loops of carols, carrots left for reindeers, treasure piles and tables of food. Last night marked the peak of the revelry: a crowded barbecue around our neighbour’s pool, ritual gathering of eskies, wet children and sparklers in the fading light, cockatoos luminous and screeching the last of 2024 in the bush over the back fence.