shhh! its christmas eve! we're all tip-toeing around the house. I mean. shit. Father xmas is. He's filling.
he's doing his stocking thang. Anyone with a stocking fetish in fact, Father Christmassing is the perfect job!
anyway. stockings are being laid out at the end of sleeping childrens' beds.
there they lay, peacefully dreaming of the logistics of one man and 800,billion children's stockings to fill in one night (anxiety dream onset: how will he do it in ONE night only? it's worse than an anika rice challenge...), and the true luminesence of Rudolphs nose in this fog (will they just crash into the first tower block in a Porstmouth suburb?).
so we're tip toeing around Granny Darlings' house down in the country. there is even a bit of snow in the garden. and we've just eaten our weight in stilton. and drunk a lot of rioja (it should probably officially be claret... but we're more cosmo than you think down here in the sticks...). and chewed some home made truffles (courtesy M-in-Law & Husband) and the scene is quite dare i say it, perfect?
and if you can guess where granny darling has put the turkey then I'll give you the last truffle...
answers on a postcard.
oh. and if anyone else does want to sign up as a "follower" that'd be a lovely christmas present for the slightly tipsy Ruined Mother.
(I discovered tonight that my mum has read it once and the rest of my (grown up) family hasn't actually even clicked on the link...- apart from Bert.... fellow brother blogger... which made me feel a bit sort, y'know? sad? mind you, not that my life is that damned interesting...)
But enough self pity! there is a night to sleep through and then a day of smoked salmon, champagne, wrapping paper and general mayhem!
Rock on Jesus! good luck down the birth canal tomorrow!
Thursday, 24 December 2009
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
The holidays are actually here.
Snow!
Twinkling lights!
Log fires (if your wood isn't too damp)!
Chestnuts!
Tinsel!
More Snow! In your wellies, down the back of your neck, all over your hall floor, up the stair-carpet!
Credit card melting!
Mol & Liz were playing like street-urchins last night, on the pavement, and made a respectable 3ft-high snowman with bamboo arms and a carrot nose and stone eyes... And some arse in the night kicked it down and trampled it away. Typical Harringay YOBS. Kill joys.
I was waiting for Mol to ask me if we could bury the dead snowman (we have in the past buried dead ladybirds and butterflies) which would've been a confusing ceremony.
So, snowman death aside, it is all Christmassy and I've done lots of wrapping and the tree is dressed (although its needles are falling and its getting a bit autumnal) and we're packing up the house for the annual family Christmas get together.
Which means Mothers Ruin is having a little Christmas break too (although our destination does have internet and a mac-computer despite being in the depths of rolling countryside) and will report back later on after Christmas (that's if I haven't gone and exploded a la Creosote...).
So, merry Christmas! And if you don't celebrate Christmas then merry holidays!
Bon Vacances!
Joyeux Noelle!
(And lets hope you've all been very good girls and boys and the mysterious Father C gets down your chimney and gives your stocking a right and proper filling.)
Until next time, friends...
Twinkling lights!
Log fires (if your wood isn't too damp)!
Chestnuts!
Tinsel!
More Snow! In your wellies, down the back of your neck, all over your hall floor, up the stair-carpet!
Credit card melting!
Mol & Liz were playing like street-urchins last night, on the pavement, and made a respectable 3ft-high snowman with bamboo arms and a carrot nose and stone eyes... And some arse in the night kicked it down and trampled it away. Typical Harringay YOBS. Kill joys.
I was waiting for Mol to ask me if we could bury the dead snowman (we have in the past buried dead ladybirds and butterflies) which would've been a confusing ceremony.
So, snowman death aside, it is all Christmassy and I've done lots of wrapping and the tree is dressed (although its needles are falling and its getting a bit autumnal) and we're packing up the house for the annual family Christmas get together.
Which means Mothers Ruin is having a little Christmas break too (although our destination does have internet and a mac-computer despite being in the depths of rolling countryside) and will report back later on after Christmas (that's if I haven't gone and exploded a la Creosote...).
So, merry Christmas! And if you don't celebrate Christmas then merry holidays!
Bon Vacances!
Joyeux Noelle!
(And lets hope you've all been very good girls and boys and the mysterious Father C gets down your chimney and gives your stocking a right and proper filling.)
Until next time, friends...
Sunday, 20 December 2009
bad diet
oh god. I forgot that with Christmas comes major nibble food galore overload and wine flowing out of every possible oozible-place and parties and more cakes and oh, just have a small one for the Christmas cheer... and then by New Years Eve everything in the body is heaving and sighing and moaning and pleading STOP STOP no more - not another drop, not another raison soaked in brandy, no more Quality Street (not even the green triangle ones) and your head is saying, well, y'know, I mean, you've already eaten 3/4's of the tin and drunk nearly 2 bottles of Claret in less than 48 hours what does one more wee-snifter really matter?
And then like that fat bloke in Monty Python Mr Creosote, you, in your head at least, feel that last sip of Baileys slip down the throat and ignite the fuse that results in spontaneous combustion and the walls of your mothers house are covered in 4 days worth of partially digested food, a couple of chocolate wrappers (sometimes there is no time to unwrap them completely... you just shove 'em in and hope that like chewing gum, it won't block the gut for 40 years as the urban myth suggests), a few hair balls and maybe even a couple of pennies you swallowed as a child. All out in a big fat-man-explosion.
And that is what Christmas is all about. Surely? Nothing to do with Virgins, Bright Stars, Wise Men (that's a mad idea! Wise Men! It must be the undoing of the whole Christmas Story...Like the tooth fairy, Wise Men Do Not Exist) and a small wee babe in a cot of straw... No! Its just about food. Drink. Piles of wrapping paper. Getting over the cold you contracted on Christmas Eve. And wondering how inpolite it would be to return the unwanted strange looking items from John Lewis which have piled up at your feet.
(Talking of colds. All the girls in the Mothers Ruin Family caught colds last week. And by Friday we were sort of feeling a bit less dreadful. [Husband now has it I believe - its before 11pm and he's sloped off to bed. Not a good sign.] But the point to this small side-chat is that on Friday I went to collect Liz from her school-nursery and bent down to give her a tender motherly loving kiss, at which point I managed to injest a mouthful of freshly-run-snot which was surrounding her mouth/nose area. And because it was in front of a lovely gentle teacher, and this is true, I felt I simply couldn't spit in the middle of the classroom. Yes. I slugged it back. Eyes shut. And thought of Britain. Or something. OH TOTAL VIOLATION! 30 seconds later and I nearly did a Mr Creosote there and then in the school playground. So. Watch out for those tender motherly moments when children have colds. Its just not worth it.)
And then like that fat bloke in Monty Python Mr Creosote, you, in your head at least, feel that last sip of Baileys slip down the throat and ignite the fuse that results in spontaneous combustion and the walls of your mothers house are covered in 4 days worth of partially digested food, a couple of chocolate wrappers (sometimes there is no time to unwrap them completely... you just shove 'em in and hope that like chewing gum, it won't block the gut for 40 years as the urban myth suggests), a few hair balls and maybe even a couple of pennies you swallowed as a child. All out in a big fat-man-explosion.
And that is what Christmas is all about. Surely? Nothing to do with Virgins, Bright Stars, Wise Men (that's a mad idea! Wise Men! It must be the undoing of the whole Christmas Story...Like the tooth fairy, Wise Men Do Not Exist) and a small wee babe in a cot of straw... No! Its just about food. Drink. Piles of wrapping paper. Getting over the cold you contracted on Christmas Eve. And wondering how inpolite it would be to return the unwanted strange looking items from John Lewis which have piled up at your feet.
(Talking of colds. All the girls in the Mothers Ruin Family caught colds last week. And by Friday we were sort of feeling a bit less dreadful. [Husband now has it I believe - its before 11pm and he's sloped off to bed. Not a good sign.] But the point to this small side-chat is that on Friday I went to collect Liz from her school-nursery and bent down to give her a tender motherly loving kiss, at which point I managed to injest a mouthful of freshly-run-snot which was surrounding her mouth/nose area. And because it was in front of a lovely gentle teacher, and this is true, I felt I simply couldn't spit in the middle of the classroom. Yes. I slugged it back. Eyes shut. And thought of Britain. Or something. OH TOTAL VIOLATION! 30 seconds later and I nearly did a Mr Creosote there and then in the school playground. So. Watch out for those tender motherly moments when children have colds. Its just not worth it.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
