The ghosts of winters past.

This is the season where even the mercury slows; where the humidity peaks alongside the sun and the air is a hot, wet mesh that wraps itself around you, covers your mouth and nostrils.

At this time of year even the tarmac softens and flexes underfoot - for this is the season where the glare from the sun will make us squint, cover our eyes. Take a single step outside the door and the day will attack, reflecting from whitewashed buildings and the bone-bleached pavements. On fierce days such as these there is no respite, no protection and on fierce days such as these, the heat takes on a lazy, malevolent sentience. It can be seen rising as a shimmering mirage from the ground, hanging thick over the harbour as a blanket of haze and slowing the tankers to a sluggish crawl as they push through on their way to dock, on their way out to open sea. On fierce days such as these, the blues are deeper and the whites sharper. This is the season which adjusts the settings, turning the contrast up on the world at the same time as it turns the volume down - as the day's noise reduces to the occasional sound; the rythmic, slow whoosh of a ceiling fan, the hum of air conditioning or the peals of laughter from the souls at the beach as they swim, play in the surf.

This is the season where the cruise ships sneak into harbour under cover of darkness, unload their passengers for a day's shore leave in our tropical outpost. This is the season where the markets thrive and the shoppers bustle; where the malls offer respite from the heat and where beaches offer respite from the malls. Above all, this is our festive season, hidden amongst the blaze of our summer and right at the end of our year. This is the three month period where temperatures soar, where Christmas falls and this is the time where planning is mandatory, where urgency increases with every passing day - and where motivation, urgency and plans fall away as the hours pass and the day heats up.

Evening will arrive eventually. It will bring darkness but no respite, no relief and the night will be full of crickets, the sky full of stars. Windows will be left wide open to welcome any passing breeze and washing will be hung out, left on lines overnight. It will dry before the sun has fully set, dampen again with the night's dew and dry again in the fledgling heat of a new day's infancy, long before the hour arrives and we have no choice but to venture outside again. We have no choice but to wade through another day's humidity, shielding our eyes as we shop for gifts, stock up on food - as the sweat prickles from our pores and runs in rivulets down our backs. The markets will be quiet this new day and the harbour empty, the cruise ship having summoned back its affluent shoppers, raised its anchor and departed whilst we slept. It will continue its journey , taking its passengers to one more port and one more market before they finally dock for good - before they disembark one final time, then return to their homes, their lives and their families. Before they wrap their purchases, write their cards, buy their food and prepare for their own Christmas Day.

And that Christmas Day will be here before long. Eventually the market stalls will be packed away one final time, offices will empty one final time. Doors will be locked and signs in shops will be turned to 'closed'. We will go home to our loved ones, wake the next morning to find that Christmas Day has snuck into our harbour under cover of darkness, whilst we were sleeping. We will open gifts, gather with our families and celebrate the birth of a man on the other side of the world thousands of years ago; a man born during winter and not this summer we sweat through now, thousands of years and thousands of miles removed from that defining event. The room we celebrate in will be decorated - festooned with tinsel and alpine imagery; with snowmen and fir trees and reindeer. In these surroundings we will sit in our shorts and teeshirts, our paper hats. We will sit under the cooling waft of a ceiling fan and eat our christmas dinner of salads, of cold meats. Outside our windows and outside our Christmas moment, the day's mercury will rises to inferno levels once again.

Sitting around this table, I will look at my family and be thankful. This day I will be grateful for my place in their lives and their willingness to embrace me, involve me and include me. This day I will eat my salad, my cold meats and enjoy the occasion - but this day I will also give thanks that I have my memories of scarves and thick coats; of Oxford Street's christmas lights, of late night crowds of shoppers on Piccadilly and of air so cold that it stings the face.

This day, I will feel my dual nationality more keenly than others. I will pull crackers, smile and be thankful for my past, the present and the promise of a future, this future.