Give peace a chance...
Much to my surprise, the Christmas tree is still intact and upright (unlike some of my work colleagues on Saturday night I might say). Reg seems to have taken a laissez-faire approach to it, not even glancing at the lovely shiny things as he wanders past it. He hasn't even attempted to pee up the trunk. Mind you, the bucket which houses the tree is rather large, so he may have to get help to pee to avoid splash-back from the green plastic . Of course, he could be lulling me into a false sense of insecurity, all the while planning some full-scale offensive when I am least expecting it, probably around 10.30am Christmas Day, just as we are getting ready to leave for Miss R's house for Christmas lunch.
The presents have started arriving for the children courtesy of the poor postman and several courier companies, who by now must be fed up of writing those 'You weren't here when we called' cards. A couple of them now allow you to request that they leave the parcels, which I rather like. They make you sign away your life first though - who knew that it was so risky to leave a cardboard box (contents value of £7.92) by your back door? My outside table and chairs from Argos are worth more than all the presents put together, and yet that stays outside quite happily. As I write this, I am imagining the children whipping their calculators out (I'm old school) to work out what has been spent on them. They know how much that table was, and are worrying that their presents will be limited to a tangerine and a pair of socks...
Anyway, back to the deliveries. My office, which around this time of year becomes a much scaled down version of Santa's Grotto (without the elves, conveyor belt or open fire) is starting to feel a bit cramped. You know when the farmer mows a field, till all that's left is a small circle full of rounded up rabbits? Well that's how I feel, surrounded by boxes, bags, wrapping and Sellotape, my little head peeking out every now and again over the parapet when it's safe to do so...ie when the kids are out. I like to save the wrapping till the absolute last minute, savouring the panic when I run out of paper with three left to wrap....I never learn, but maybe this year I'll try and do it a bit earlier..(Not too sure who I am kidding here, as my Christmas cakes are still naked and wrapped in greaseproof paper rather than marzipan and fondant icing).
I still don't know what to buy the husband. It's the same every bloody year. I ask him what he would like. He says 'World Peace'. I thump him, and ask him again, to which he replies, 'Nothing, I have you and the kids, what more do I want?' Of course, this is the right thing to say, if not strictly true. There is always something we want. Whether that is an hour of peace without an ankle biter asking a question starting with 'What' or 'Where', or perfume or a new book, there is always something. He hasn't asked me yet, which is a shame, as I have a list as long as your arm...
And World Peace, although a wonderful idea, is nowhere to be seen.....
The presents have started arriving for the children courtesy of the poor postman and several courier companies, who by now must be fed up of writing those 'You weren't here when we called' cards. A couple of them now allow you to request that they leave the parcels, which I rather like. They make you sign away your life first though - who knew that it was so risky to leave a cardboard box (contents value of £7.92) by your back door? My outside table and chairs from Argos are worth more than all the presents put together, and yet that stays outside quite happily. As I write this, I am imagining the children whipping their calculators out (I'm old school) to work out what has been spent on them. They know how much that table was, and are worrying that their presents will be limited to a tangerine and a pair of socks...
Anyway, back to the deliveries. My office, which around this time of year becomes a much scaled down version of Santa's Grotto (without the elves, conveyor belt or open fire) is starting to feel a bit cramped. You know when the farmer mows a field, till all that's left is a small circle full of rounded up rabbits? Well that's how I feel, surrounded by boxes, bags, wrapping and Sellotape, my little head peeking out every now and again over the parapet when it's safe to do so...ie when the kids are out. I like to save the wrapping till the absolute last minute, savouring the panic when I run out of paper with three left to wrap....I never learn, but maybe this year I'll try and do it a bit earlier..(Not too sure who I am kidding here, as my Christmas cakes are still naked and wrapped in greaseproof paper rather than marzipan and fondant icing).
I still don't know what to buy the husband. It's the same every bloody year. I ask him what he would like. He says 'World Peace'. I thump him, and ask him again, to which he replies, 'Nothing, I have you and the kids, what more do I want?' Of course, this is the right thing to say, if not strictly true. There is always something we want. Whether that is an hour of peace without an ankle biter asking a question starting with 'What' or 'Where', or perfume or a new book, there is always something. He hasn't asked me yet, which is a shame, as I have a list as long as your arm...
And World Peace, although a wonderful idea, is nowhere to be seen.....
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