To mirth, to merriment. To Manslaughter

Well, it's Christmas Day and I'm posting this from my sister's computer.

So far all has gone largely to expectations. The ancestors are permanently needling one another, the kids have gone insane and I'm running out of reading material.

It seems that Dad had a 'funny turn' as it was described to me a week ago today. All the appearance of a stroke, but rapidly recovered from. This was not deemed important enough for me to be told about until Monday morning in passing. He seems to be back to his usual self now, which means wandering around purposelesly and annoying the hell out of Mum.

Mum, in turn is intermitently ill with something which may or may not be a cold; this has not improved her patience.

It is 3.45 now.

Still no sign of Christmas lunch, and I've missed the Queen's Speech. Not that I'm massively bothered you understand, but there's tradition there: sitting watching the Old Girl doing an Alastair Campbell on a year's worth of events that have brought the spectre of republicanism just that little closer. By 3.00 pm we should be stuffed with turkey, Christmas pudding and wine, too bloated to do anything about changing the channel. Then comes the James Bond movie.

Not this year so far.

I love my family. But it is easier to do so from a distance of 150 miles.

Never mind; new year is coming up. That's when the festivities start.

To mirth, to merriment. To Manslaughter

Well, it's Christmas Day and I'm posting this from my sister's computer.

So far all has gone largely to expectations. The ancestors are permanently needling one another, the kids have gone insane and I'm running out of reading material.

It seems that Dad had a 'funny turn' as it was described to me a week ago today. All the appearance of a stroke, but rapidly recovered from. This was not deemed important enough for me to be told about until Monday morning in passing. He seems to be back to his usual self now, which means wandering around purposelesly and annoying the hell out of Mum.

Mum, in turn is intermitently ill with something which may or may not be a cold; this has not improved her patience.

It is 3.45 now.

Still no sign of Christmas lunch, and I've missed the Queen's Speech. Not that I'm massively bothered you understand, but there's tradition there: sitting watching the Old Girl doing an Alastair Campbell on a year's worth of events that have brought the spectre of republicanism just that little closer. By 3.00 pm we should be stuffed with turkey, Christmas pudding and wine, too bloated to do anything about changing the channel. Then comes the James Bond movie.

Not this year so far.

I love my family. But it is easier to do so from a distance of 150 miles.

Never mind; new year is coming up. That's when the festivities start.