It was probably 6pm when my father dragged Amanda Palmer off the fence and dunked her face in the pool. Almost everyone had been drinking. And now Ms. Palmer had a face full of water. I’d once given her a pretty unkind review way back, but this seemed excessive even to me. I had to fight hard to take my father’s hands away from the back of her head. The ironic thing, I guess, is she’d been perched up on the pool fence with her ukulele singing her version of Radiohead’s High and Dry. Some of the family had even recognised the song. But my dad just lost his Christmas spirit then and there. Something snapped – and not just Palmer’s third ukulele string. “You are not to invite your musician friends around at Christmas ever again”, my dad said as he sunk back into the deckchair examining his hands as if they never belonged to him and he’d recently just found them (around Amanda Palmer’s neck). “I didn’t invite her”, I tried to explain. “And she’s not even my friend”. How she had ended up sitting on our pool fence in Hawke’s Bay for what felt like days but in reality was only – only – a punishing 187 minutes – was anyone’s guess. But I blame Neil Gaiman. I blame Neil Gaiman.