I’ve never spent Christmas somewhere warm, or traded a turkey dinner for fish tacos on the beach. But that’s what we’ll be doing this year, and I’m pretty stoked about it. We’re flying out on Christmas day, which is also a first, and landing just in time to catch the sunset. Since having children, traditions are something I think about a lot. As a child, there were so many traditions to look forward to at Christmastime, from carols at midnight, to my giant quilted stocking, to the champagne jelly my Mum used to make. England at Christmastime is magical, and my memories belong in a Hans Christian Anderson novel. I wonder sometimes what my children’s associations with the holiday will be? The Lindt calendar they receive from their grandmother every year? The Panetone they eat on Christmas morning? The fights they have over who gets to place which ornament on what bough? It’s nostalgia that prompts me to gather round the fireplace to send the children’s hand written letters to Father Christmas up the chimney. And while I know that they enjoy such old fashioned traditions, I know that they are as much for me as they are for them, a desire to connect with my own childhood. Children don’t care whether it’s turkey or tacos, a Balsam tree or a Palm tree. The magic of Christmas prevails regardless of such details. It’s in the anticipation. It’s in the imagination. It’s in that fleeting belief that maybe, just maybe, reindeers really do fly. So, I can sprinkle my sugar plum fairy dust with the stories I tell, the traditions I pass on, but the real magic, that’s something that children have within them. And that’s what we remember. And that’s what we hold on to.

I went to the AGO yesterday and saw a Picasso from the artist’s blue period. “There are about fifteen shades of blue in this painting,” I said to Jason. To say I love the colour blue is an understatement. But not all blues are made equal. I love a Prussian blue, and that glorious lapis colour that appeared on Egyptian tombs. I love the blue that appears on shutters in the Cyclades. And the moody, teal blue of Picasso’s famous self portrait. An exhibition of Picasso’s blue period is coming to Toronto in June 2020.

As a child, and teenager, I kept sketchbooks, dozens of them. I’d fill them with drawings and poems, and clippings from theatre or exhibitions I’d seen. I kept matchbooks in there, and cinema stubs and little love notes from my friends. I made collages from fashion magazines like Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. And scribbled my name in every font you can imagine. When I came across the sketchbooks of British artist, Catherine Cullis this morning, I felt inspired to start keeping my own again. Hers are really lovely to look at, as is her work. Have a look around. Maybe we could all keep sketchbooks, instead of relying so much on our phones.

I’ve lost my bathing suit. I’ve worn it to every swim for at least four years. That’s a lot of swims. It was navy blue with neon straps. My signature suit. Four people, including Alex the lifeguard, have asked me where my cozzie is. “You’re wearing a new suit, Athena.” It’s not a new suit, but it is new to the community pool. It doesn’t belong there. It belongs on a beach in Cap Ferrat. But no suit feels as good as my Speedo did. It was a second skin. With neon straps. So, now I am on the hunt for a replacement. Shopping for suits in December is a horrible bore. And I’ve learned the hard way that buying suits online is a mistake. I’m considering a red suit. For a change.