The dog helpfully tidied up the leftovers in the kitchen and was spectacularly sick on the hall carpet.
Meanwhile 12 year old James polished off the sherry trifle and the dregs of everybody’s wine glasses and was spectacularly sick en route to the downstairs loo.
The twins plugged in their new PlayStations, which blew the Christmas tree lights which set off a chain reaction and tripped the mains, and in all the excitement nobody realized the deep-freezer in the scullery needed switching on again. Twenty kg of thawed deep frozen fish is a very un-festive event indeed.
Grandpa George had words with George Junior because he wanted to watch the cricket and George Junior wanted to watch the World Darts Champs.
George Junior gave me a new Hoover for Christmas despite my hints about wanting a season ticket to the Artscape Ballet.
Little Amanda was devastated to discover that Father Christmas is actually George Junior, and George Junior equally devastated to discover that there is no sporton any channel after 1700 on Christmas Day. This gloom was only surpassed by his expression when he opened my gift to him – well, I thought he’d enjoy The History of Rugby, in two de luxe volumes; he’s always saying rugby is his substitute for religion. Will I ever get this gift thing right?
Aunty Joyce carefully refolded 53 pieces of Christmas wrapping paper because we should all re-cycle dear and didn’t really enjoy the December Hazel Nut Loaf as her turkey substitute – you know I never eat garlic dear, but never mind.
Uncle Basil broke his front tooth on the R2 coin inhis Christmas pudding, there’s a break-in next door while the neighbours are on holidays, and all three of my credit cards have broken the records, broken their limits, and I’m a broken woman.
But you know what? The thing that breaks my spirit completely is the grim knowledge that next December we will do it all again! VOLUNTARILY. Can someone please explain that to me?