No Christmas can ever go totally smoothly, though this year’s issues were small in comparison to some things that have gone wrong in years gone by. There was only one problem, which involved a dropped dish and me. However this was severe enough to have left some human remains on the drive outside, enough in fact to warrant calling in Harvey Keitel’s Mr Clean. Well, maybe not quite that bad - but it was painful enough to mean that I was awake as much as the children on Christmas Eve.
There was the usual carpet-concealing pile of presents this year; a haul, which, I regularly complain, is about equal to ten-years-worth of presents from the dark ages when I was a lad. However, one of the presents this time was a dolls’ house made from Handy Andy’s favourite three-letter abbreviation. I will confess it was a kit but I did have to fit it together and paint it and cover it with bits of slate-patterned paper (thank goodness for spray mount). Unfortunately it was too large to conceal the construction from my daughter, which meant that surprises had to come in other forms this year.
This being only the second year that there has been a seasonal Doctor Who, it may be too soon to call this a tradition but it seems like just that. The family sat down at 19:00 precisely, waving absent-mindedly at departing non-whovians for an hour of cracking Tardis-Taxi chasing and Spider-Woman over-acting followed by 90 minutes of Who Music over on that interactive channel thingy at number three-o-something.
This morning, the house is strange mess of casually discarded board games, books, foil wrapping from chocolate coins and an upside down plastic jet aircraft. Being ever-efficient, my wife was able to supply all required batteries from the secret store that she has been caching since August, though some have already run out.
Best joke of the day came from the BBC continuity announcer who said that Christmas day would not be right without the Trotters … before the start of Babe.
Merry one and Happy other.
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