I know that my more philosophical friends (who probably equate to those of you who can eschew Christmas with a firm hand) will scold me for wishing my life away, but my goodness, dear readers, I can’t half wait for Friday to roll around.
I am measuring my days at the moment via a long list of things to be endured, confronted or tolerated before being able to fall head first into a bottle of fizz and an entire family sized panettone.
This week is not quite as hectic as last week, but I am fitting quite a lot into the first two days of the week, which probably means the second half of the week will be mostly a question of getting by on caffeine fumes and looking at pictures of Daniel Craig whilst making a faint mewling sound.
Here is a run down:
Matilda saw fit to try to open a plastic tub of Haribo with her teeth on Friday evening. Her braces did not like this and it seems that they have come loose from their moorings.
Curse that child.
This means I must ring the dentist today and beg for some kind of repair appointment, despite the fact we only saw him two weeks ago, and he congratulated her on the fine work she has been doing generally keeping her braces intact and getting her teeth all wonderfully straight. He did not want to see her again until March.
It is not March.
And I already have to take her to have new glasses this week, after she announced that she couldn’t see anything, and the emergency eye test last week confirmed that she is indeed, blindus battus.
Tonight, Tallulah is taking part in a festive music celebration/concert thingy at the church. She has been practising for weeks. She has woken up with a voice like Bonnie Tyler gargling with gravel, and a deliciously blocked nose. Nevertheless, the show must go on, despite the fact that she is doing a duet on hand bells with her arch enemy to boot.
It will be worth watching.
We are all attending the concert in a rare commitment to family solidarity. I won’t say that it is anything to do with the fact we have bets on a pre show punch up with the arch enemy, also involving the use of hand bells.
Tomorrow, I am going to the pantomime with one hundred insanely excited infants. The good news is that I do not have to repeat the procedure with the juniors the following day. Most years I go to both plays, but this year they are both going to the same play on consecutive days and my festive line in the sand has been drawn.
The bad news is that this year there has been a decision to give the children ice cream in the interval. It will be dairy based carnage, and if I do not come home with Mr. Whippy in my hair line it will be a new kind of Christmas miracle. I am repeating the mantra; ‘Must not forget the sick bucket’, until fade…
Add to this, a smattering of maths tuition, a singing lesson, the fact that library books must be returned or I am going to bibliophiles hell, and that I must, despite having a house, stacked to the rafters with food, go to the supermarket again for packed lunch supplies, and you will see that the week is already in nuclear meltdown before we get to Tuesday.
After that I only have two Christmas parties and a shared table to get through and we are home free.
Today I have an appointment with my fabulous masseuse, which is good. She is helping me sort out my creaking neck/shoulder issues – which, unsurprisingly, she tells me are stress related due mostly to the juggling of all my charitable endeavours and festive overload. I spend a week concertinaing up until my head is squashed between my shoulder blades like some kind of corrugated mountain range, and then she eases them back into some semblance of normality.
Rinse and repeat.
I also have pilates. Pilates which stops my hips falling apart.
My neck is improving. My hips are improving. The vast wastelands between those regions has gone to hell in a bucket, and let us not speak of my mental state.