As a child raised in the Southern Hemisphere, Christmas came punctually every year on December 25th, like everywhere else. The beginning of summer. Summer holidays.
No snow, no robin redbreasts, no White Christmas, except for Bing Crosby endlessly on the record player. No pine trees, except a few on the sides of distant mountains. No holly, except on Christmas cards from England featuring all the usual.
A very different Christmas that anyone on that other hemisphere can identify with.
Instead, thorn bushes bearing red berries. Called piquillín locally, they were hard to cut and shape into anything cone-like. No matter, the addition of a packet or two of cotton wool, some baubles and tinsel, and the child’s illusion is intact.