Dear Father Christmas

Dear Santa,

I’m going to jump right in because, frankly, I feel like death and just want to curl up in bed until the New Year but I have too much to do and not enough time and how the bloody hell did that happen, not least given that I was organised enough to have bought almost every Christmas gift before December 1st?

I apologise for the swearing by the way. You know me, I swear when I am under pressure. I apologise for all the other swearing too: there’s been a lot this year. But, you will note, far less than last year, so that, surely, is a good thing? Given that there are no plans for 48-hour-labour in my future, you should see a steady decline, year-on-year, which I hope will bear well on the gifts of future Christmases. I should undoubtedly confess all my misdemeanours now that I have opened the Pandora’s Box, since at the very least it will buy me extra time to work on effusive apologies. Anyhow, I got a parking ticket (swearing again), broke a few plates (more swearing) and stole chocolate from the children’s stash on several occasions (to prevent swearing). I may also have faked being fast asleep so that DH had to deal with the children first thing in the mornings (though only at weekends.)

In fact, I should thank you for the significant increase in the amount of sleep I have been getting this year: DH gave me an almost-weekly lie-in last Christmas and it has made such a difference. Had we known that all we needed to do was move The Girls in together we would, of course, have done it ages ago: the farce of having them both sleep in the double guest bed whilst leaving both their beds untouched precipitated a Cold War between DH and I, which was responsible for a significant increase in the hourly rate of swearing at DG Manor, something which came under control only when we sought refuge in a good bottle of Carmenere. Differences settled, bunk beds separated, Girls combined the ratio has once again reduced to sustainable levels. I should also say thank you for the dog walker, as does DH, who is grateful not to have to take the Reindeer-in-Training out at all hours because she lacks the necessary sense to walk beside, rather than directly in front of, the pushchair.

In return, I was delighted to hear that you liked last year’s t-shirt: I confess the FCFC idea was DH’s, and may have been the result of a long night testing mulled wine recipes, but I am astonished to hear that you actually now have your own football club and have plans to take on Elves United for the cup next year. Rudolph is an excellent goalie, from what I’ve heard: he certainly never misses a shot that the Wonder Ound fires at home when you stop off at our house. Although that may be because the dog has had one too many slurps of the mulled wine that DH and I invariably spill on the floor in our Annual Tasting. In fact I should inform you with great sadness that, due to an unfortunate incident involving my mother, a broom and a packet of Hula Hoops, we have decided to eschew the mulled wine in favour of beer this year.

Bearing in mind the cache of gifts I got last year, the swearing and the repeated mulled-wine-related-injuries you have suffered since we had the children, I consider it prudent not to ask for anything spectacular this year. I can see that last years’ oven-with-a-new-extension-to-put-it-in was out of line with the essence of Christmas. Although if I could carry that particular wish forward to another year, I’d be grateful. Otherwise, I’d just like to get rid of this cold: I have to cook a turkey for 11 people in less than 48 hours. It would be fabulous if my Christmas dinner was germ-free.

That’s about the size of it. I’ve got a new cookie recipe for you to try. Let me know what you think.

Oh, and give Mrs C. a big hug from me: we’re looking forward to seeing you at Easter. I don’t think the Suffolk sun will give you the second-degree-burns that you got this year in the Caribbean. Just to be sure, I’ve left you a little something under the tree. It worked for Saint Nigella of Lawson.

Yours,

DG

xxxxwoof