There was the slightest crack in the loungeroom door shining light through to Santa Claus's designated delivery spot clearly marked by a plastic Christmas tree.

Shining light on a subject or an issue or an incident uncovers the truth, but for those who believe in Santa there is no question.

Carrots for the reindeer and beer and shortbread for the great man created an air of expectation with generosity extended to ensure kindness and acknowledgment of a job well done and a year of hard work, which was central to Christmas time.

After all, for those who can, Christmas Day is about family.

The door should not have been left slightly open; it was an accident; a forgotten formality after tasks were completed. It did not really matter but created an accidental air of excitement and expectation. I should not have been looking but it was impossible to avoid the quickest glance en route to the bathroom again...

Struggling to sleep with excitement and with anxious feelings preventing shut-eye, I was desperate to see the presents yet petrified that I may come face to face with Santa Claus.

He was such an unknown and there was a clear and present threat that gifts could be rescinded should I disturb him at his work.

It was not really a crack, rather, the slightest slither of what my mum would still call ajar.

"When is a door not a door? When it is ajar" - a riddle my parents often employed because they enjoyed wit rather than sarcasm, the latter testing their understanding of humour.

A pun or a wordplay employed the English language in a more sophisticated way; not a judgment, more an understanding of the importance of learning and striving to be better.

At times, Aussie humour reduces complexities and riddles and wit to a very basic style of comedy. There is a significant difference, which appears simple yet is miles apart and very hard to explain. We were always aware of the distinction, but it created confusion that we had to learn to unravel.

On reflection, it was often an air of timing that underpinned the delivery or perhaps coming face to face with a different type of humour with different content that exacerbated our misunderstanding.

Sometimes I still feel uncertain, which is not to diminish the impact of each style, rather, the misinterpretation makes me funny and humorous while at other times misconstrued, which as Mrs W. informs me delivers a lead balloon.

I lay blame at the feet of The Two Ronnies and Billy Connolly versus The Late Show and Hey Hey It's Saturday.

Anyhow, back to Christmas morning.

Christmas continues to mean so much.

There has always been an element of religious observance including the requirement to resist the urge to venture outside and test new equipment. That could wait until the next day - Boxing Day when the Test Match would inspire confidence and enthusiasm and passion that could be expressed at the local cricket nets.

Once upon a time, it was considered inappropriate to play outside on Christmas Day or Good Friday - the two most important days on the Christian calendar.

They were days signified by the fact that The Examiner was not delivered. However, like our community's tolerance for difference and much-needed diversity changing our community profile, our views have shifted.

Desperately hoping for a cricket bat, I could not sleep. A modest Kashmir willow Poly Armour or Terry Armou imitation of an English willow stick would do. Even at such a young age we understood expense and had a clear sense of honest expectation. A Gray Nichols Scoop or a Duncan Fernley Magnum were completely out of the question and that was fine.

We made up for inferior equipment with dedication and hard work. A Slazenger would be great yet an Allpro would do. If it was a new bat, I would be happy. We would just have to find a ball often dispatched next door under plentiful Trevallyn shrubs or trees or in the long grass of the primary school bush playground.

Alas, that was simply an inconvenience rather than a problem.

Sleep must have eventually found my subconscious.

I do not remember Santa Claus arriving through the backdoor as our chimney had been filled with the flu for the gas heater. Dad was often up before us and it was the wee hours when the light that once shined through an ajar loungeroom door had vanished.

A favourite song reminds me that it is always darkest before the dawn. That was the time when we rose to uncover and unwrap what Santa had painstakingly delivered.

For families who came from very little this was their opportunity to show how far they had progressed. Plentiful with gifts and food yet not elaborate or over the top; on budget with desired and cherished and useful presents and kit that would be used until they could no longer be employed due to repetitive wear.

A heartfelt Merry Christmas to you all.