There was an interesting experience at John and Carole’s place in Sydney one Christmas in the early 80s. My parents and I had been invited to spend Christmas with them in their new house. I arrived on Christmas morning in plenty of time for lunch. I had travelled separately from my parents on my new motorcycle. I had arranged to meet up with a friend in Melbourne later in the week. We had planned a camping trip in Tasmania.
Carole was welcoming and in good cheer. My parents had arrived there a day or so earlier, and were their usual selves. John displayed his usual formal awkwardness. There was a bit of friendly chitchat and the usual catching up on gossip. Lunch was being prepared, and the dining room table was set nicely. Everyone seemed in a good mood. I think we had a roast that day; that was in the days when I ate meat. The meal included baked potatoes and other vegetables, and was very nice. With good food and light hearted conversation, everything was set for a pleasant lunch and afternoon. I thought everything was as it should be, but apparently, not quite everything.
Partway through the meal, John’s eyes began roaming the table, and in a loud and accusing tone demanded of Carole, “Where’s the gravy?” It was true; the gravy boat wasn’t on the table. Carole had forgotten to prepare the gravy. I wonder why it had taken so long to notice its absence. My mother chirped in saying it wasn’t needed. The meal certainly was a bit dry, and gravy would have helped the dish, but for my part, I was already more than half way through my meal, and hadn’t actually missed it. My mother was right. We could do without it, but John was already on his feet, criticizing Carole for her failure, and stormed into the kitchen. Everyone else continued eating to the sound of John banging away at pots and pans in the kitchen as he made the gravy. He eventually returned to the table in a grump with some thin and lumpy gravy that was almost pointless, as everyone had almost finished their meals. The mood that descended over the table, on his return, could be cut with knife. No one was in the mood for joviality, certainly not Carole who had been hurt by a needless outburst. The occasional attempts at conversation intended as icebreakers fell on deaf ears. Carole was intensely upset, and walked out, and the rest of us finished our meals in silence. So this was Christmas at Hornsby; never again. Bugger that for a joke. After that experience I was keen to get out of the place. I cut my stay short preferring to spend an extra night or two in a youth hostel in Melbourne prior to my camping trip.