The bloody kitchen floor is under here somewhere...Firstly, I hope very much that all of you had a peaceful and lovely Christmas and if not, that you had a decent supply of booze to get you through it. Chez nous, it has whizzed by in a blur of presents, visits, laughing and some ill-advised late-night singing on the karaoke machine that Santa left.
Well, forgive the long radio silence; I have been without internet and with enchanting people since I came back from the sun. I now am sitting in a strangely silent house nursing a dog who ate I cannot imagine what when I wasn't looking and is very ill and just wants to snuggle in front of the TV. That'll make two of us then.
My time in the sun was epic and when British Airways theatened to strike and strand me on the beach, I merely shrugged. However, they got us back, landing between airport closures and snow storms and giving me just enough time to race round the supermarket and speed-listen to carols to get me in the mood.
I have two wonderful men who join us for Christmas each year who were also stranded, in Morocco, and also made it over in the nick of time. One comes all the way from Melbourne, one from heaven. They cook like angels and wash up like plongeurs. They also teach the bots exotic swear words and make us play Sardines when it is way past bedtime.
So the bots and Edward are in London at the Panto and Freddie is going to a Chelsea match tomorrow. The angels have flown to go skiing in France. The Colonel gets back from his peace-keeping mission tomorrow. I have a fridge full of left-overs and probable renal failure. I have a camera full of videos of grown men grabbing microphones from small children and transmogrifying into Robert Palmer. The library door is firmly closed on a sea of wrapping paper and there is tinsel in my hair.
The dog and I are on water and boiled rice. We had fantastic time.