26/12/07 For some reason, I slept late today, delaying the proposed departure of my Boxing Day hike by an hour. Exercise, as I remind Christine's uniformly sluggish depressives, counters unhappiness more effectively than any pill. I could feel my spirits rise as I laced my walking shoes. Not even the sight of Heather Spink, summoning some creature of nemesis on her flute outside Cuthbertson's Coffee house was sufficient to sour my mood. Making a mental note to inform the authorities that she was persisting in 'performing' without a licence, I quickened my pace and crossed the road, dismissing the torrent of abuse elicited by my appearance with "A merry Christmas to you, too!"

As I reached open country, my gait automatically adjusted to the countryman walk taught me by my grandfather. For the next three hours, I traversed a landscape unchanged since last Boxing Day. As I crossed a brook it occurred to me that its song had remained constant for generations. Had I chosen, I might have displaced a rock and permanently altered its rhythm. Instead, I closed my eyes and imagined myself part of the song. I remained here in rapt contemplation of eternity until a group of ramblers blundered into the vicinity. Their leader, hirpling on alpine sticks like a crippled insect spattered with fluorescent ink, asked me for directions. By the time I'd warned him against the mire and demonstrated the benefits of the genuine countryman walk as opposed to the impediment of attempting to cross rough country with sticks, it was time to return to Drumfeld.

Since marrying and having children, my cousin, Richard Malcolm, has wholeheartedly embraced most of the conventions he used to mock. For years, he and Spencer did their utmost to ruin Christmas for everyone else, posturing as vegetarians and sneering at everyone else's gifts. Having spent successive Christmases in bed with the sort of viruses to which children of enhanced intuition are particularly vulnerable, I found it galling that any pleasure I might have derived from listening to the carols emanating from downstairs was diminished by two disruptive voices soggy with feigned idiocy.

Now that Richard has children of his own, of course, the traditions he once derided are sacrosanct. Every Boxing Day, they arrive at Christine's, the boys resplendent and malign in matching outfits while Richard and Shona wear the dazed expressions of reality t.v. contestants emerging from isolation to be confronted by an unexpectedly hostile response. George and Christopher, both frazzled and resentful, prostrate themselves in front of the television and refuse to communicate with anyone except to demand juice or biscuits. Refusal from either Richard or Shona invariably elicits a hissed, "I hate you!" with the consequence that both parents now compete for favour. The dynamic in the Balsillie-Ure household, incidentally, is very similar. It's a distinctive phenomenon which, in twenty or thirty years time, will conclude with now useless parents being unceremoniously culled.

Spencer, whose heart remains frozen in adolescence, can't conceive of why anyone else's priorities might change. He regards Richard's evolution into fully fledged adulthood as a particular source of bewilderment. In the years immediately following Richard's marriage to Shona, Richard referred to him with the sympathy applied to someone stricken by a mental disorder. His attitude gradually hardened. "He's not really doing anything to help himself, is he?" he mused shortly after the birth of Christopher when Richard, preoccupied by his son's croup had failed to show sufficient interest in Spencer's new sequencer. His patience finally snapped when Richard appeared at one of Christine's barbecues wearing a pair of Birkenstock sandals. Throughout the afternoon, Spencer's horrified gaze returned to our cousin's protruding toes. I've no idea why this should have had such a devastating effect, particularly on someone who thinks nothing of wandering the house clad only in torn underpants. As far as Spencer was concerned, though, it obviously represented a breach of some obscure personal code. He still refers to "the sandal incident" in the hushed terms of someone reluctantly recalling a personal violation.

Today, I managed to entertain George and Christopher with a demonstration of Cung-Coe, quietly reassuring their parents, of course, that I'd refrain from passing on any of the art's deadlier techniques. "Do you think you could beat my dad?" asked Christopher after a vigorous demonstration of the Cockroach defence. Rather than embarrass Richard, I equivocated that it would depend entirely upon circumstance, environment and whether or not he was armed. To my astonishment, Richard contradicted me. "I can handle myself okay, Chris," he said. Being able to 'handle yourself' in a normal situation was entirely different, I reminded him, from taking on a master of Cung-Coe. "I don't think Cung-Coe's something you'd actually use to fight anyone," he replied. "It's more of a distraction." I should probably have let the matter drop, but any martial artist will confirm that there's nothing more aggravating than having some numbskull pass comment on his discipline, particularly, as Spencer suddenly piped up in my defence, a numbskull who wears sandals.

For the next twenty minutes, apparently oblivious to the presence of George and Christopher, Spencer and Richard vehemently disputed whether or not Richard could beat me in a fight. What started out as a ludicrous proposition descended to depths of farce as both Muriel and Colette declared that they'd expect to emerge victorious from a tussle with the originator of Cung-Coe. "It's not as if you're talking about Bruce Lee," reasoned Christine as the discussion between more heated. "It might as well be Peggy Lee," said Spencer, "but that's not the point!" This might seem comical, but it showed a lack of respect, not only to me, but also my students, all of whom would have been enraged by the insult to their sensei. Rather than remain in an environment in which I would, inevitably, be called upon to defend my art's reputation, I thought it best to leave. "Oh, you're not in the huff again," said Christine. "Can we all just agree that Hamilton's the best at fighting?" The subsequent attempts to mollify me were patently insincere but, having impressed the necessity of humility upon my students, I was obliged to accept the apologies offered (however glibly) and stay for the rest of the evening.