The Spanish girl is at it again, dancing on the grave of the Australian summer.

No more going to the beach, burning beef on the barbie, or having a cold one in the hot sun.

Perhaps it’s time to reconsider our activities over the next few weeks.

After thinking long and hard, I’ve come up with some ideas.

*Mud Baths. Women pay a small fortune to be smeared in mud at a day spa. With the recent rain, you could set up a salon in your own back yard. The neighbours would be like pigs in mud, wallowing around in your pit – I mean, exclusive outdoor treatment area. And you’ve got your own outdoor rain showers to wash off the nasty muck afterwards. Just as nature intended.

*Wet ‘n’ Wild. No need to fly to the Gold Coast to visit a water park. Build your own, using 4-ply plastic and a few pieces of string. Simply tie the plastic to an upper window, unravel it to the ground and – bingo! The torrential rain will do the rest. Probably best to weigh your guests before they try this one. The sound of ripping plastic could mean a million dollar lawsuit.

*Umbrella Art. It’s a bit boring looking at the inside of the same old umbrella, week after week. Why not decorate with decals! Select a smiley face, the sun, or a picture of people on the beach. Almost as good as the real thing! Alternatively, buy one of those trick mirrors that turns the image upside down. That way, you’ll be looking back at a smile instead of a frown.

*Home Videos. This is the perfect time to make a family film. Begin with an iconic image – say the kids crying because it’s raining and they can’t go outside. Follow up with some whinging from Mum about how the house looks like a Chinese laundry. Then Dad can add his bit about the grass growing so long, he’ll have to buy a sickle to slash his way out. Fun for the whole family.

*Sunrooms. In northern Europe, locals go to sunrooms for light therapy, when they’re suffering from seasonal affective disorder. Why not build one in your own home? Collect all the lamps and put them in the smallest closet. Ah, isn’t that nice? Feels like you’re in Tahiti. Except instead of being surrounded by gorgeous bodies, it’s musty hats, board games and boxes. There’s a lot to be said for creative visualisation.

See? The Spanish girl isn’t so bad after all!

Enjoy the last lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.

Not the recent growth on my upper lip, although I do need to address that in the near future.

The Walt Disney Company is finally allowing its staff to grow beards.

For 60 years the beard has been banned, because it doesn’t suit the clean-cut, all-American image of the Happiest Place on Earth.

The Hairiest Place on Earth doesn’t have quite the same ring.

It could however lead to a revamp of some of the characters.

Nemo could be recast from clownfish to catfish with the requisite whiskers.

A simple splash of water on C-3PO would create a rusty five o’clock shadow.

And Ursula the Sea Witch is one step away from being a bearded lady.

Critics have welcomed the change from the sanitised Disney Look.

But I think this has always been part of the attraction.

Who wants to take their kids to a sleazy amusement park full of carnie folk with missing fingers and random bum fluff?

Last year, after much saving, we went to the Happiest Place on Earth.

(For me, that’s usually in the bath with a glass of wine, but I digress.)

Like most Aussies we were sceptical, figuring it wouldn’t live up to its reputation.

How wrong we were.

I burst through the gate like Ben Johnson on steroids.

Just seeing Mickey made me smile like Goofy.

The place was pristine, so clean you could eat off the floor.

Not that you needed to: there were plenty of cheap and cheerful cafes with staff who knew how to give good service.

Frankly, we wanted to move in there.

We flew through the air like Peter Pan, had an undersea adventure with Nemo, and shrieked in Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas.

Then there was shrieking of another kind when Grace met the Disney Princesses.

You know what it’s like when you meet someone you’ve always admired?

Once I (literally) ran into the lead singer of a band whose poster I had on my wall as a teenager (I believe I actually used to kiss it).

Instead of saying hello or shaking his hand, I squealed and ran away.

At Disneyland Grace hid behind my legs, shaking and sobbing.

The Princesses tried to comfort her, but it was too late.

Taj’s big moment came when he fought Darth Vader after doing Jedi training.

It made me inexplicably proud to see my son using a plastic blue wand to attack an actor dressed in a mask and cape.

Which brings me back to the beards.

The appeal of Disneyland is its perfection.

The performances, rides, food and service are second to none.

If the Walt Disney Company wants to preserve that heritage, so be it.

I like the Disney Look.

It takes you back to that special magical pre-beard bubble known as childhood.

Or cut them in half.

Or give them Chinese water torture.

It’s true that absence makes the heart grow fonder; familiarity breeds contempt.

The traits we found endearing at the start of the school holidays become enervating at the end.

So I thought I’d take Taj and Grace to a magic show to learn creative ways to shut them up.

This was no ordinary show.

There were no nervous bunnies or playing cards with bent corners.

The Illusionists features The Escapologist, a modern-day Harry Houdini; The Anti-Conjurer, who looks like Robert Smith from The Cure with his white makeup and piercings; and The Gentleman, who does strange things with doves.

Call the RSPCA immediately.

Now I don’t know about you, but I’m a sceptic.

So when The Mentalist asked whether we believed in psychics, most of us shook our heads.

Tough crowd.

And yet somehow, by doing parapsychology tests devised in Russia early last century, he managed to convince everyone he was the real deal.

Incredibly, he used telepathy to guess one word from around 600,000 in the Oxford dictionary.

I could use this to great advantage during the school term.

“So how did you go in your exam?” I would ask.

“Really well,” the kids would answer, shuffling their feet.

“Wrong!” I would yell, applying a mild electric shock to the temple as part of their therapy.

(Oh, it’s illegal? That’s disappointing.)

Then the escapologist (sounds like a sneeze when you say it quickly) came out, stripped off his gear, and plunged into the water torture cell.

“Is he going to die?” Taj asked?

“I hope not. He’s very good looking,” I replied without thinking.

But the highlight was the lady being cut in half.

I have no idea how they did it (then again, I’m not real bright).

Obviously the entrails were fake, unless we’re all filled with packs of Coles sausages (at least there are “no added hormones”)

The top half could have been the performer with her legs tucked beneath her.

But the bottom half wandered off by itself.

“See Mum? If I cut Taj in half, he would still be alive!” Grace exclaimed excitedly.

Mental note: Hide all the sharp knives.

We agreed it was the best show we’d ever seen.

And it provided me with a repertoire of new threats to use against the kids.

“I’ll put you in the corner” is nothing compared with “I’ll cut you in half/submerse you in water/make you disappear”.

After all, the performers lived to tell the tale.

All’s well that ends well.

 One of those things is the ability to take the piss out of ourselves.

So I thought I’d compile a list of the things I really love about being an Aussie.

• Eating Sausages: Where else in the world could you bundle up meat off-cuts, shove them inside intestines, and sell it as the national dish? I know, technically, that’s the meat pie. But the humble sausie crosses all socioeconomic groups these days, with the pork and fennel variety for those wearing their fancy pants. The best thing is – if you block out what’s inside – they actually taste great.
• The Beach: Sure, other countries have beaches. But they’re not as good as ours. Those uncomfortable strips of red and black pebbles in the Greek Islands shouldn’t be allowed to call themselves beaches. They leave unsightly marks on your flesh. Frankly, I’ve got enough lumps and bumps already.
• The Ocean: It takes more than the odd shark attack to keep us out of our jewelled sea. We love nothing better than surfing on it, diving in it, and gazing at it. And, we’ll eat just about anything we can get out of it. Nothing says Australia Day like eating prawns on the Barbie while reading a book by Tim Winton.
•  The Barbie: There are claims it was invented in Europe, America, even the West Indies. But none of them knew how to use it properly. Australians have an innate ability to chuck any old slab of dead animal on the hot plate and make it – at the very least – edible. Some of the more adventurous of us will even try vegetables.
• G’Day: Admittedly, it’s losing popularity. But hearing this peculiar contraction of ‘good day’ while travelling overseas brings a tear to the eye. Even if it comes from a loud-mouthed bogan. In which case, we quickly pop a plum in our mouth and pretend we’re from the Motherland. Pip pip, old chap!
• Our National Anthem: This is a controversial entry. There are some who would prefer God Save the Queen, Waltzing Matilda, or John Williamson’s True Blue. But I like being young and free, walking on golden soil, and being girt by sea – even if I have no idea what ‘girt’ means. It paints a pretty picture.
• Secret Talents: When we think of Australians who’ve made it overseas, it’s often actors or singers. But for every Nicole Kidman, Kylie Minogue, Russell Crowe and Cate Blanchett, there’s a Peter Carey, Patrick White, Germaine Greer and Clive James.
• Taking the Piss: This is what I love the most. We never take ourselves too seriously. The day we do that, we become American. And there isn’t enough teeth whitener in the bathroom cupboard for that.

Happy Australia Day!

Just one lifestyle, actually.

A colleague invited me to his/her house (no name, no pack drill) for dinner.

Something relaxed and casual, they said.

I walked in to a see the entire contents of a marble quarry laid upon the floor, benchtops, and staircase.

Immediately, I wished I had socks on so I could slide across the floor like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.

Except that would have been inappropriate.

What wasn’t marble was glass.

The view was an iconic Australian landscape, all pastel hinterland and jewelled sea.

“This is the most goddamn beautiful view I have ever seen in my life,” I announced to no one in particular.

Then there was the wine cellar, with every good local vintage of the past 50 years.

I wanted to lock myself in there for a day – maybe two – just to test the wines to make sure none of them was off.

The rest of the house was like a modern version of Noah’s Ark: Everything came in twos.

There was a backup dishwasher, in case the other one was full.

The adults had two bathrooms, one of them complete with a Hollywood-style mirror surrounded by naked bulbs.

(This, of course, was for the bloke.)

The two walk-in wardrobes were big enough to house small African villages.

But the highlight was the three separate master bedrooms: One for the hubby, one for the wife, and one used to make babies.

That way, everyone gets a good night’s sleep.

Our bedroom is like Grand Central Station with alarms going off at all times of the morning, depending on which shift we’re working.

Then there’s the snoring.

And the fight over the doona (no, that’s not a euphemism).

I thought it was all rather civilised.

There was another room for the live-in au pair, who I not-so-subtly tried to take home.

“The kids are great,” I lied. “Sure, they might make you bounce on the trampoline for hours at a time, squirt you with water guns, and insist on beating you at Uno, but apart from that they’re really sweet!”

As dinnertime approached, I became nervous. What if I used the wrong cutlery? Or dropped something on the starched white tablecloth? Or swore loudly?

Fortunately, the hosts had thought of that too.

They served sausage sandwiches. With tomato sauce. Accompanied by a fine cab sav.

I couldn’t have been happier.

Because really, we’re all the same, deep down inside.

It doesn’t matter whether you’re rich or famous, you still crave the simple things in life.

Deep down inside there’s a tiny person who wants to bounce on the bed, eat lollies until they throw up, and play video games until their fingers fall off.

Over the years, we’re weighed down by responsibilities.

It can be restrictive.

Which is why it’s fun to shake it up once in a while.

For Christmas, the kids bought me a pair of rollerblades.

If you’re of a certain era, you’ll remember the excitement of the local roller skating rink.

Speed skating to Ballrom Blitz; the last romantic skate to a dreadful Bonnie Tyler song; eating a swirly ice cream at the Yummy’s Bar.

Back then there was a ‘look’.

The girls had to have white skates (preferably with red wheels), tiny denim shorts, shaggy hair and feather earrings.

For boys, it was a faded crystal cylinders t-shirt, flared jeans, and a mullet.

Ah, the mullet. Pronounced ‘mull-ay’ if you’re a bit fancy.

I believe it’s making a comeback.

Some of my younger friends have consigned their children to months of mockery by having their hair all business up front, party down the back.

Achy-breaky-bad-mistakey.

Which brings me back to rollerblades.

I have no idea which ones are fashionable these days, or what you’re supposed to wear with them.

But every time I look at my brand new bright pink blades I can only see one thing: Hospital.

For I am 44, not 14.

In the old days, all you had to worry about was a bruised bum.

Now it’s a wrist fracture, elbow snap, and mild concussion.

Plus the embarrassment of telling the mums at school that your arm is bandaged because of an “unfortunate rollerblading incident”.

Ahem.

Last week, one of my colleagues wrote a column about his particular form of mid-life crisis.

He’d chosen to ride a fixed gear bike, because the constant grind of pedalling reminded him of the monotony of middle age: You keep moving but you don’t really get anywhere. Except older, of course.

So I guess rollerblading is my metaphor for ageing.

Sometimes life is like a speed skate at breakneck pace, with events flashing before your eyes.

This is punctuated by moments of quiet solitude, waiting for romance or the touch of another’s hand.

The rest is about falling over.

This weekend, I will attempt to strap on these modern day roller skates.

It won’t be pretty.

But I will hold my daughter’s hand as we glide around the park, giggling like children.

And if I do end up in hospital, it will be worth it.

Because there’s nothing quite like feeling like a kid again.

I take my hat off to you.

If you have time to read this column, you’re much more organised than me.

The day before Christmas is usually one long “Oh no, I forgot about a present for Uncle Harry!” and “There’s only broken prawns left at the Fish Market. Should we try pippies instead?”

I spend all year ranting about how shops are open 24/7, leading to the fragmentation of the modern family, then lament the fact there are no shops selling cufflinks open after 6pm on Christmas Eve.

It doesn’t really matter because most years we race out the door at precisely 6.47pm in a last minute search for Christmas lights.

What’s that expression about never really appreciating something until it’s (almost) gone?

After that, I make a valiant attempt to cook a turkey. Or ham. Or Turducken.

The latter is kinda like the Babooshka of meat.

Three birds are deboned and unceremoniously stuffed inside each other, creating a rainbow effect.

Think of a chicken, stuffed into a duck, shoved into a turkey.

Occasionally there’s a pigeon, if you like to eat rats from the sky.

It all came to a head seven years ago, not long after our premature firstborn came home from hospital.

At 2am Christmas Day I was still in the kitchen cooking the godforsaken turkey.

With one arm holding Taj to my breast, I tried to remove the steaming hot bird from the oven without causing harm to either creature.

(Ever since that day, Taj becomes ravenous at the sight of any domesticated fowl.)

I decided I was the real turkey for inviting 14 people to Christmas lunch while caring for a tiny sick baby.

This year, it’s all in the capable hands of my little sister.

In a moment of sheer insanity, she decided to do the Turducken for 24 people while wrangling three kids under the age of seven.

Undoubtedly, we’ll need to have aromatherapy oil, herbal tea, and a CD of Tibetan chanting music on stand-by. Or a stiff glass of scotch.

Then there’s the inevitable skeleton in the closet that leaps out during times of emotional upheaval.

One friend found out she was adopted after a particularly long Christmas lunch.

Let’s take a moment to remember those for whom the season is not so jolly: The sick and the lonely; the families irretrievably broken; and those stricken with grief at the loss of a loved one.

As someone once said, “Christmas is a season for kindling the fire for hospitality in the hall, and the genial flame of charity in the heart.”

Merry Christmas.

Don’t get me wrong – I love Christmas carols.

But it’s no wonder kids get confused.

Who on earth is Don? And what is gay apparel? Sequins and sparkles?

Those of a certain vintage understand that this phrase means, “We are putting on our party clothes”.

But listening to the kids practise their carols, you would be forgiven for thinking they were speaking in tongues.

They were decking the halls with bells of folly, which pretty much sums up what happens when too much alcohol is imbibed on Christmas Day.

Of most concern, they were roasting Jeff’s nuts over an open fire, instead of chestnuts.

Ouch.

The first Noel was apparently frightening poor shepherds in fields as they lay, while the merry gentlemen were being urged to get dressed, rather than being allowed God’s rest.

And Taj became terribly confused about his role as Joseph in the Nativity play.

“How are babies made, Mum?” he asked.

“Ask your father,” I replied, in a superb abdication of parental responsibility.

As for the performance, it all turned out all right on the night.

Unlike our friends’ kids, who were performing at their Montessori school.

Due to overweening political correctness, Christ was taken out of the Christmas Carols.

The three-year-olds were forced to sing, “We Wish You a Happy Holidays”.

Some of them, having heard the Christian version, accidentally (shock, horror!) sang “Merry Christmas” instead.

Their tiny faces contorted in confusion when they realised their – ahem – mistake, desperately trying to turn “Christmas” into “Holidays”.

What next?

Away in a Manger replaced with A Day in South Asia?

Frosty the Snowperson?

The vertically challenged drummer child of indeterminate gender?

I thought multiculturalism was supposed to be about inclusivity, not exclusivity.

These kids should be learning about all religions.

To erase one is discriminatory – especially when it’s the predominant religion of the country.

Fortunately, for every Montessori there are 10 other schools embracing Christmas, even adding their own Aussie flavour.

Grace’s class sang about the Aussie Santa, who drives a ute with a big V8, wearing an Akubra, Blunnies and a dusty grin.

There were the 12 Days of Christmas, with five BBQs, four cricket bats, three pairs of thongs, two fishing rods, and Mortein for a bunch of blowies.

And the hard-working shepherds watching their flock by night were having a good old whinge about their pay rates.

So, as we all don our gay apparel, let’s not forget the true meaning of this time of year.

Have a Merry Aussie Christmas.

I wish I could do that.

Australians aren’t blessed with a natural sense of rhythm.

Hubby dances like a praying mantis with its leg stuck under a windscreen wiper (yes, I have seen this), while I do a poor imitation of Elaine from Seinfeld.

 If you haven’t seen the episode, picture a woman who’s just been hit with 240 volts.

Why is it that white folks can’t dance?

I was pondering this question while having lunch at the Hard Rock Café in Darling Harbour.

Our waiter was a mini-Meatloaf, all “right on” and “awesome” plus a plethora of Gen Y expressions, which were lost on me.

Even the menu was rock ‘n’ roll: the Tupelo Chicken Tenders were served with either Classic Rock, Heavy Metal or Tangy B-B-Q Sauce.

I wanted to order the heavy metal, but feared a dose of arsenic might lead to an unfortunate vomiting incident on the pavement.

(Although that is VERY rock ‘n’ roll.)

The food turned out to be “right on” and “awesome” (are they the same thing?) but the highlight was the memorabilia.

“Look Mum, there’s that guy who took too many drugs,” Taj shouted excitedly.

He could have been referring to any of the rock gods whose images decorate the walls but it was Michael Jackson, who’d donated a colourful sweater he’d been given during his Bad tour in 1988.

Did he really hate it that much he wanted to give it away – or was it a generous donation to charity? We will never know.

Next was Angus Young’s schoolboy outfit made entirely from velvet, which probably explains why he looks so sweaty on stage (that, and the fact he’s middle-aged and probably suffering from male menopause).

At this point, someone turned the music up.

And the kids started dancing.

It was the kind of uninhibited movement you wish you could achieve as an adult, instead of looking like a stick insect.

I envied their loose limbs, jelly legs, and far-away smiles.

At what age do we lose the ability to let go?

Suddenly I remembered the name of the song: “Sex On Fire” by Kings Of Leon.

Fortunately, the kids got the lyrics mixed up, doing a too-loud rendition of “Justin’s On Fire”.

I felt sorry for Justin, although being on fire might have been a euphemism for his style of dancing.

Then I felt sorry for us, that we weren’t born at a time when everyone learned the Waltz, the Pride of Erin, or the Gypsy Tap.

Maybe I should get hubby some lessons for Christmas, so the next time we go to a party we don’t have to sit in the corner like wallflowers.

Then it wouldn’t matter who’s watching.

It would be a gift to feel the joy – the sheer exhilaration – of dancing like a child.

Like Peter Garrett from the days of Midnight Oil, we will flail about madly trying to get rid of those pesky flies.

Sure, they play an important role in the ecosystem.

But don’t underestimate this insidious insect.

Each common housefly carries 1,941,000 bacteria on its body.

Which is why you’ll see Sky newsreaders speaking with pursed lips this season.

A routine clean of the air conditioning system recently released a swarm of small flies.

We tried everything to get rid of them: One colleague even covered herself in Baygon.

Another mused about seeking sponsorship from Mortein as part of its campaign to kill off Louie the Fly.

Personally, I feared a repeat of an unseemly incident ten years earlier.

A fly landed on my forehead while I was reading the introduction to the main news story.

Being young and nervous, I simply ignored it.

The following night, my faux pas was repeated on a comedy show, as the panellists screeched, “Why didn’t she just brush it off? She’s not a human being, she’s a robot!”

(Nowadays, I’m programmed to appear a little more human.)

One day last week, the inevitable happened.

A colleague opened her mouth at the wrong time and – gulp.

I don’t know why she swallowed the fly.

But we all thought she was going to die.

Her eyes bulged. Her lips stopped moving. And she pointed a shaking finger at a monitor to indicate to the director, “Roll a tape to cover my embarrassment or I’m coming down there to vomit fly juice all over you”.

Or something to that effect.

In the end, it didn’t look too bad.

At least, not as bad as fainting twice on air, which I did in the 1980s.

(This is considered to be the high water mark for televisual humiliation.)

But we remain alert, not alarmed, about the tiny terrorists in our midst.

Heavy rain showers and warm weather are likely to bring flies in plague proportions this summer.

Whether at nippers, in the park, on your bike, or in the beer garden, make sure you’re well armed to protect against the invasion.

Have a spider on hand to swallow the fly, a bird for the spider, a cat for the bird, and so on.

Past experience has taught us not to go as far as the horse. Which is what killed the Old Lady, of course.