Christmas Season 2020 so far has gone as well as everything else this year for us.
First off, our Jingle Bells Turkey lost his voice. He is at least 15 years old but it still came as a shock. When pinched on his tail, he still gyrates like mad, and stretches his neck as expected, but without the sound he looks like he is having a seizure. I would like to help him, just don’t know how.
Next thing I know, our baby poinsettia plant is not looking very healthy. He might not make it till Christmas.
And finally, for the first time since I became a mother, I failed to secure Advent calendars for my brood. Fair enough, I set off to purchase them on the 2nd of December, but I expected some sad Frozen 2 or Percy Pig offerings to still be available. Nothing. Zilch.
A year of feeling that as soon as one door closes, another slams firmly shut in your face, is crawling to its end. In slow motion, of course, like everything since February.
On Monday, the 14th of December, we got another bad news bogof. Tier 3 for London announced in the same breath as a new strain of faster spreading Covid. Where does it stop? It’s been relentless, exhausting, bottomless. I am not prone to negativity, I hate to complain, my default mode is happy. But this is beginning to test me.
At least Eastenders sounds more and more like comedy central these days.
Last night, Rainie to Stuart, all heaving bosom ravishing : ‘I am proud of you. For being honest about the dead man in our fridge’.
I can’t wait for the Christmas meltdown.