(no subject)
We are motoring quickly into the depths of Christmas afternoon, and all here is progressing as you might expect with five adults and two kids living in close proximity.
This may well be the last time I come home for Christmas. I just don't need the hassle. Dad has suggested that next year, weather permitting, he and Mum should go to their caravan in Wales for the duration, and I have an invitation to go somewhere, too. Odd, how I recall suggesting that the idea that they all move in together would cause more trouble than it's worth, but I was shouted down. Love 'em all to bits, but peak efficiency in the emotive response is reached at a distance of 150 miles, back in London.
Sarah-Lou, the littlest niece is in receipt of enough presents to build a land bridge between Asia and the Americas. We lost her Grandad for half an hour in the discarded wrappers.
Although the weather is chilly, and there was a frost on the ground this Christmas morning, there is, as yet, no sign of the much-trumpeted snow, so the chances of us having the near-legendary first white Christmas within living memory recede once again, even as the bookies count the rolls of tenners they stuffed under their mattresses following the usual ill thought out flutters of those who take Bing Crosby and Christmas cards literally. I mean, hands up anyone in the UK who can actually remember snow at Christmas. And no, I don't want those of you who live across in Snowdonia or up in the Cairngorms to make out that your locale is in any way typical of the rest of the country.
I have another sweatshirt off my sister. That it is a good sweatshirt in no way alters the fact that it is the fifth in six years that she has bought me, and that I can't wear them out as fast she supplies them. Socks would have been extremely useful this year. But Mum purchased me a nice pair of Chelsea boots, so all is not lost.
Went to see Uncle Des in hospital yesterday. He looks reasonably well, all things considered.
This may well be the last time I come home for Christmas. I just don't need the hassle. Dad has suggested that next year, weather permitting, he and Mum should go to their caravan in Wales for the duration, and I have an invitation to go somewhere, too. Odd, how I recall suggesting that the idea that they all move in together would cause more trouble than it's worth, but I was shouted down. Love 'em all to bits, but peak efficiency in the emotive response is reached at a distance of 150 miles, back in London.
Sarah-Lou, the littlest niece is in receipt of enough presents to build a land bridge between Asia and the Americas. We lost her Grandad for half an hour in the discarded wrappers.
Although the weather is chilly, and there was a frost on the ground this Christmas morning, there is, as yet, no sign of the much-trumpeted snow, so the chances of us having the near-legendary first white Christmas within living memory recede once again, even as the bookies count the rolls of tenners they stuffed under their mattresses following the usual ill thought out flutters of those who take Bing Crosby and Christmas cards literally. I mean, hands up anyone in the UK who can actually remember snow at Christmas. And no, I don't want those of you who live across in Snowdonia or up in the Cairngorms to make out that your locale is in any way typical of the rest of the country.
I have another sweatshirt off my sister. That it is a good sweatshirt in no way alters the fact that it is the fifth in six years that she has bought me, and that I can't wear them out as fast she supplies them. Socks would have been extremely useful this year. But Mum purchased me a nice pair of Chelsea boots, so all is not lost.
Went to see Uncle Des in hospital yesterday. He looks reasonably well, all things considered.