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As much as we say we don't celebrate Christmas, you wouldn't know it by looking in our fridge at the moment. Looking at our diet over the last few days, the only clue that we are a pair of die-hard Scrooges is absence of a salad with radishes and green and red pickled onions. On Thursday we went down to Urunga to pick up the prawns and oysters we ordered from Lindsay's Oyster Barn for the Christmas lunch we technically don't do.

Insanely busy. You would think that the first thing they would do on Christmas Eve is parcel up all the orders they've taken, stick an order number on each and put them in the fridge to pull out when the customer arrives. But no, they assemble the order when you come to pick it up. I saw no evidence of any stock control going on, and plenty of customers were without orders, so it's not so much an order as a vague and very contingent reservation. I'm glad we got there early. I wonder what happens to people who come to collect their orders after the stock has run out. It's like the Seinfeld scene about the definition of "reservation". ("I know why we have reservations." "I don't think you do. […] See, you know how to take the reservation, you just don't know how to hold the reservation and that's really the most important part of the reservation, the holding. Anybody can just take them.")

Having just blown the best part of a hundred dollars on seafood, not to mention the horrifically-priced ham Allison had purchased earlier, we spent the afternoon as economically as possible watching videos, drinking wine, and eating nibblies including a sneak preview of the divine locally-grown Sydney Rock oysters. I found a recipe for grilled oysters with pesto which Allison executed with delightful results. I was fast asleep by the grandad hour.

On Friday we took Allison's auntie Chez out for the picnic lunch we do as a concession to her belief in that God person. Surprised to find quite a few vacant picnic tables at Boronia Park. The weather was a bit overcast, which pleased me as it kept the temperature down. Allison had prepared a salad (sans radishes and pickled onions, in defiance of tradition) to accompany the ham, prawns, and oysters. I shucked the oysters at the table. I'm increasingly of the belief that every second between shucking and serving costs flavour, and wouldn't dream of buying oysters pre-opened any more.

An Attenbourough-eque drama performed by a goanna and a pair of magpies kept us entertained over lunch, and had a nearby child-intensive family jumping up and down, squealing with excitement.

A dip in the surprising cool water later, we retired again to the TV, having made the usual Christmas preparations of stockpiling videos to avoid broadcast TV. More snacking, drinking, and another embarrassingly early night.