The Many, Many Days of Christmas

December 19th

Discover that secret to "To Do" lists is that if you wait long enough the entire week comes round again, and so spend morning feeling smug that it is only Tuesday and yet already have things ticked off for Thursday.

In light of last posting date, spend day in frenzy of home made card making, which involves fabulous gingerbread design made from recycled cardboard, cookie cutters and white glitter. Am pleased by result but discover while writing envelopes, that I have vastly over estimated number of friends I have and feel slightly depressed. (Note to self – check out possibility of selling gingerbread card glut to company owned by bloke once kissed at 6th form party for vast sum of money – the cards not the kiss, sadly, as would have at that point quite happily have kissed people for money – but do not wish to think about what that says about my morals as a teen! Although on reflection am going to assume this was merely further evidence of budding entrepreneurial spirit fist developed in 2nd year with sale of stamps and 4th year with sale of English essays and forged notes from parents.)

December 20th

Previous embarrassment at always being in pajamas when postman knocks on door pays off when he delivers a parcel from my friend Inge in Denmark, from which she has omitted the house number. Postman says he recognized my name as I always come to the door in PJs and thus he remembers me. Do not explore what it is about the impression I make in my nightwear that has stuck in his head and willfully and without evidence chose to believe it is complimentary.

Entire country is swathed in fog which grounds planes and leads to number of human interest stories in manner of Plane, Train and Automobile about people trying to get home for holidays.

Am particularly irritated by young German woman, who complains that she hasn't been able to get a flight yet despite having followed the instructions given her by the airport (phone ahead, check in early etc) to the letter. Am unclear how any instructions the airport gives (short of get on the runway with your fellow whiners and blow really hard at the fog) could possibly be expected to clear the fog and let her fly. Think this sad reflection on the younger generation's sense of entitlement.

December 21st

Much anticipated visit from Lucy and Lily from Thailand finally arrives. (Traditional summer visit next year cancelled as Lucy will be too with child to fly.) Lily seems to have adapted to weather just fine, but Lucy looks very thin, very brown and very cold despite copious layers and 3 hats worn simultaneously. Turn heating up to tropical temperatures in attempt to remove bluish tinge from Lucy's complexion and order copious amounts of Indian food which helps. Within few hours of their being here feel start of cold and have to give serious thought to theory that I might be allergic to children. This leads to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang flight of fancy in which I build large cave under the house where all the children of Woking must live, but on reflection decide to leave them where they are and just not go out.

Final straw occurs when I am left to mind Lily for a few minutes and she settles down to play quietly on the double bed while dig out some clothes that Lucy might find useful during her pregnancy. I turn back 30 seconds later when Lily says "look at me is this dangerous?" and find she has teleported herself (I think toddlers train the marines about swift and silent movement over terrain) to the metal bedstead and has climbed up it. Do no know if it is my horrified face that distracts her or my leap from the bed, but she slips and in amazing slow motion arcs down to smack her face on the metal I catch her before she hits the floor but there is lots of blood and screaming, and both Lily and I go into shock leaving Lucy to cope. May suggest to Lucy next time that Lily would be safer left in a cave somewhere. Feel distraught that I have broken a two year old and drink bottle of champagne later to console myself.

Christmas

Christmas goes well and HTB and myself have fabulous time with both our families, although have horrid feeling that my drunken rendition of all the songs in Some Like It Hot, make stay with HTB's brother longer than he cares to think about, but I blame the champagne. Watch Queen's speech and am delighted to be able to see one of the boats from my ex workplace through the window over her shoulder and text Rachel immediately (less successful is my champagne fuelled urge to tell my parents but I will draw a veil).

Presents are well received and I am particularly delighted to find that HTB was not being obscene when he offered me a pearl necklace and has in fact bought me one and matching earrings. He in turn is amused by my witty and clever (desperate and far fetched) take on the 12 days of Christmas and seems very keen on the bottle of Grouse in a Pear Tree.

HTB's children are both very well behaved (due in part I think to my convincing C some time ago that all CTV cameras are linked into a worldwide surveillance system run by Santa, can't imagine what numerous security guards have made of small boy waving at them and mouthing Hello Santa, but have fun trying.) They like presents and we have lots of fun playing one particular board game. E has her traditional Christmas illness and HTB and I take it turns to mop up and I reflect on the difference between the amount she has eaten and the amount she expels. (Expelled = aMount Consumed squared)

All in all a good time had by all and we stagger towards New Year non too worse for wear.