Father Christmas. He’s on his way, or so I was told by a seven-year-old in the pub who ran home to check his progress across the globe.
My kids don’t believe in the fat man who slides down chimneys, but they still want to wake up to a filled stocking at the end of their beds. The trouble is, my presents are all over the house after my husband told the kids they could take charge of them. I wouldn’t mind, but he bought two presents this year and lost them both. I have a present system and it’s fallen apart.
Cross words were exchanged. I’ve done it again. Lost my rag at Christmas, it happens every year and this time, I hoped the new, slightly calmer me would resist, but alas, it all proved too much. I confess, I also shouted when I caught my son ploughing through the Boxing Day food – I am catering for 14, so will be stuck if everything is scoffed.
I can’t talk. I’ve eaten my way through a bag of the chocolate coins that were destined for a stocking and am about to crack open the chocolate liqueurs. It’s to console myself. I gave my husband his Christmas present and he is distinctly underwhelmed.
Earlier this year I did a stand-up comedy course. My husband came to the graduation show and saw me perform my five minute routine. He didn’t exactly heap praise on me and uttered phrases like ‘I’d be so good at this’ and ‘People tell me I am really funny you know.’ I took that to mean he’d really like to do the course – clearly, I got it wrong, he was just feeling insecure. Doh!
Anyway, it’s still early and there’s time for a chapter of Louise Hay. Her You Can Heal Your Life book arrived today and so far, it’s ticking all the boxes. Here’s to waking up.
All is well.