Heat

Firetrucks, families and friends

SIRENS are blaring as we drive first through Cudgen and then down into Kingscliff and Tom looks around in alarm.

"Oh god are we caught in the apocalypse?" he says looking this way and that for signs of smoke or destruction.

I just smile.

Sirens are situation normal on Christmas Eve on the Tweed Coast.

In fact by 6pm I expect Tom to be as blasé about them as I am.

We are heading to excited child central armed with our togs, towels, dvds, colouring books and other child-friendly items.

It is nice to be able to take some time out after the emotions of the day – we still have to deal with Simon but with Christmas tomorrow there is little he can do and after the drama of the day I just want to chill out and enjoy hanging with more intelligent but less complicated people.

My nieces and nephew!

As we head into Kingscliff, the sirens get louder and Tom is still looking bewildered.

At the moment the sound is still coming from the flat area down along the beach so I know we have a bit of time.

Kingscliff kind of comes in two parts. Long flat streets by the ocean and then a tall dominant hill up behind Ocean Parade.  Smack in the middle of the hill is the water tower, a big concrete structure which is both the town's water supply and a pretty good landmark for pilots flying into the Gold Coast airport. My sister swears blind that they see it and put their wheels down for landing but I'm not so sure.

The houses surrounding the tower are all refugees from the 70s and 80s (all rendered and renovated to within an inch of their life). The northern side of the hill sees a lot of traffic and the houses are older and needing a bit of work but the other side of the water tower is full of quiet kid-friendly cul-de-sacs and wide streets (perfect for a game or two of street cricket ) that snake around and around the hill, making it easy for the inexperienced traveller to get lost. This is where all the "toffs" live in their two storey dream houses with their 2.5 kids.

The sirens are still blaring out and now Tom can make out Christmas music and a lot of Ho, Ho, Ho and the penny drops.

"Santa on the fire truck,"  he laughs.

"Santa on the fire truck," I grin back.

"He'll be throwing lollies to kids on the side of the road," I say as I throw the blinker on and we enter the labyrinth of suburbia.

It's a great PR exercise for the fire brigade, but it's more than that. A local business man buys huge bags of lollies every year and donates them to the three local fire brigades along the coast and every Christmas eve, Santa and his Fiery helpers (bush fires willing) take to their trucks and throw out lollies. In some locations people come in from out on the farms and sit on the side of the road with a picnic and wait for the appliances to come down the street.

The trucks are covered in tinsel and the sirens can be heard all over the towns up and down the coast from Fingal just north of us down to Pottsville.

They've been doing it for almost two decades now. And like pavlovs dogs, the local kids flock from their houses at the sound.

To me, the fire sirens mean Christmas more than anything I've experienced the other side of the equator - snow, carols and the smell of turkey's cooking don't hold a candle.  It's funny I always wanted a cold Christmas but while I have enjoyed them in both London and New York, those sirens sounding make me smile and remember carefree summer days and the excitement of waiting for Santa.

I round the corner towards the back of the hill and there sitting on her front veranda is Di. Brooke is sitting on her knee and Ben is running round playing super heroes or something– Rhia is obviously inside, though when she hears my car she comes running out to greet us.