We had ourselves a merry little Christmas.
Let’s see if this rings any (jingle) bells with you. Not for the first time we had to wake our daughters to open their presents on Christmas morning.
But they’ve always been like that. Even when they were little there were no 4am horror shows – try cooking dinner when you’ve been awake for eight hours in a houseful of shrieking toddlers. In fact, don’t.
Everyone liked what they got and, best of all, everything fit. We didn’t go nuts but we spent every penny in the pot.
Even Walter, our adolescent sighthound, liked his indestructible tug-of-war, figure-of-eight rope that they use to tie cruise ships to docks. After dinner all four of us took the dog for a walk where he more or less behaved himself and our meatsweats were blown away by Storm Barbara.
The next day we went to visit my sister and her family and the dog found a new way to disgrace himself. We walked him to the top of Hoad Monument in Ulverston where the wind was so strong you could lean back into it. While he was there he ate his own weight in cow poo and then yakked up a wonderloaf-sized parcel of it on to their cream-coloured carpet about an hour later.
But of all the presents anyone got for Christmas none could have been enjoyed as much as the Frozen recorder I bought my three-year-old niece. She tooted that thing ALL DAY, even standing on tiptoe for extra oomph. Three days later and I can still hear its powerful howl. I may be wrong but it could end up being “accidentally” snapped across my sister’s knee when no one’s looking. Anyway, what sort of idiot gives a recorder to a three-year-old? Oh yeah.
While we enjoyed a Boxing Day roast expertly cooked by my sister, our beaky-nosed hound found his way into a tied up binbag in the kitchen and ate as much bread sauce and God knows what else as he could swallow. Apart from all that, it was pretty uneventful really. Drank too much, ate too much and spent time together as a family which doesn’t happen as often as it should.
Anyway, Happy New Year.