Monday, December 19, 2005

The ghost of Christmas early

The best thing about having Christmas Day on a different day is that there's none of that extraneous gumph around. Down at t'farm on Saturday we had a marvellous Christmas Day, with all the right ingredients:

-- child waking up at dawn's crack and squealing about presents, waking us all up as well
-- light breakfast in bed, listening to a radio refreshingly free of cloying carols
-- getting dressed in nice clothes, breaking open the champagne and the Santa hat and opening presents
-- playing with/reading the back of/ taking photos of said presents until lunchtime
-- sitting around the dining table with best china etc eating prawns, oysters, fresh Atlantic Salmon, ham, salads, adn drinking lashings of nice wine
-- lying bloated on the couch in front of the tv and having a nap
-- entertaining beloved guests in the evening until you all fall over from exhaustion.

The shops were open for those last-minute emergencies, there were no horrid tv presenters offering us feel-good Christmas stories, and no Queen's massage. We missed out on our traditional swim at Tathra Beach because it was frigging freezing -- we were all in long sleeves all day!

So it felt like the real thing, and now I find myself wondering why everyone else is rushing around looking frazzled. Admittedly I'm also frazzled, but not by Christmas. I'm trying to get my head around my Woodford art workshops. We're leaving on Wednesday, heading North, and I've only just started getting my head in the right space. Eeek!

My present haul was excellent this year. I got all the things I asked for (Clare Bowditch CD, boxed set of Black Books DVDs, Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones) plus a few surprising extras (B-52s CD, DVD of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, a juicer). Mr Pooter and Mr Padge got a set of mini-boules. I can't wait to set up a boule-playing cat photo. They gave each of us a pair of socks, separately wrapped -- left foot from Pooter, right foot from Padge. Very cute.

The cats were very happy at the farm, and Mr Pooter developed a fascination for the internal stairs between the upper and lower floors of the house. I had to stop him from trying to slide down the bannister a number of times:

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