Twas the night before Christmas and all that jazz

It is Christmas Eve.

I have taken the children to granny’s house, where we have made inroads into much of the food which was set aside for Boxing Day.  We have devoured, like locusts, and left a huge trail of crumbs behind us.  We were helping really.  Making sure that granny has not bought anything too poisonous.

I have been forgiven for leaving the Christmas stockings in storage.  This was helped by the fact that the pillow cases I have offered as a replacement hold more than a regular stocking.  Therefore I win.

The children have made Christmas crafts.  I have not.  I was going to make cake. I did not.

Andrea came round instead, and we sat by the fire eating Yule Log and gossiping like fiends.  We have not seen each other properly for weeks due to her having to defrost cows every day for the past fortnight. A cow is a large animal. It takes lots of de icer to get your average Hereford cow back on the move.  There has not been a lot of time to spare for cake and talking rubbish.

Today, being a festive kind of day, she made time.

It was good.

Jason is home, and our traditional Christmas Eve dinner of curry has been eaten with gusto, delight and a runcible spoon.

This was good.

I have stacked up enough logs and coal to withstand a siege, so that I should not have to set foot over the threshold in the next twenty four hours unless I want to.  This is my Christmas present to myself.  I am, it turns out, fundamentally easy to please.

It is good.

My new, swanky £300, Sony HD, 3D scary film movie making camera has arrived from Amazon Vine.  I get to test it over the holidays.  I am rather nervous of it.  Andrea and Jason have played with it and consider it good.  I will look at it later after I have seen off the nerves with a festive glass of red wine.

Most of the presents have now arrived.  There are a few outstanding, but nothing alarming, and the children will be happy.

This is good.

We are as peaceful as a houseful of five disparate people are ever going to be, particularly when one of them is as old gittish as me.

It seems like an excellent time to wish you all a glorious, happy and joyful Christmas.  May your sprouts not be too farty, may all your presents be from Louboutin and not from Argos, and may your Yule Log be long and filled with chocolately goodness.

I will of course, be broadcasting tomorrow, much like the Queen, so if you are feeling desperate for something that isn’t as saccharin as Val Doonican in a reindeer jumper, come on over and I will undoubtedly be able to regale you with tales of festive woe.

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