Happy Bloody Christmas!

I’ve got a cold. A ‘Woman Cold’. It’s like ‘Man Flu’. But it means I still get to cook and clean. I get it every year. For Christmas. Still it makes a change from scented shower gel.

Can someone pass that trumpet? I’m going to blow it for a while. Hell why not? It’s the festive season and we all like to blow something once a year. I just want to say, despite this temperature, this hacking cough, this permanent running nose, I successfully managed to entertain 30 guests on Christmas Eve and cook dinner for 7 on Christmas Day. Ok, I had a little help here and there but being a kitchen control freak, it’s often better for any willing helpers to steer clear. It’s a dangerous combination – me, ‘woman cold’ and a boiling hot bucket of mulled wine!

And you know what? It was a roaring success. Even though I say so myself. Just a trumpet? Hey, pass me the tuba!! No one died of food poisoning. Nothing ran out. Nobody argued. Ok, one of the ageds knocked a bottle of red wine on the white table cloth, but that’s an annual event not to be missed. And it means I get to put the washing machine on on Christmas Day!

So it’s now the 30th. And I confess my sum total of doing anything since then has been a disappointing zero. All my plans to clean out that cupboard and empty those boxes have been scuppered by a few good films on tv, a tin of Quality Street and feeling like the walking dead. Still I feel I’m entitled to it. I did all the Christmas shopping, made pickles and chutneys and a Christmas pudding. Just call me Nigella!

OK, you can have the tuba back. Blowing it is hurting my weakened chest. I’m heading back to the sofa. You all know where the left-overs are if you’re hungry. I shall be sat here for the foreseeable, desperately trying to remember when I last had a shower. Maybe if I’d got some scented shower gel for Christmas, it might have reminded me.

Happy New Year, friends.

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