Sunday, 4 November 2012

Remember Remember the 5th of November...

Actually I never remember the 5th of November.   Fireworks don’t ‘do’ it for me.  After years of having a dog that cringes at every bang, and reading horrific stories in the newspapers about firework accidents, I’d be quite happy to see them banned.  However, what Guy Fawkes Night does have a tendency to do is remind me that the Christmas season is edging closer.  And so the Christmas shopping has begun.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Mr V as he watched me, crouched on the bedroom carpet, huffing and puffing over cellotape that had adhered itself to everything other than the present I was wrapping.  Without waiting for an answer he began rummaging through the carrier bags dotted around the room.  This is an action which ever so slightly drives me potty.  ‘What have you bought me?’ he asked.
The dog appeared from nowhere, tail wagging expectantly.  Her eyes lit up at the sight of wrapping paper.  She joined Mr V and also began searching the carrier bags.  ‘Get that dog out of here,’ I said irritably.  The cellotape was now on the Christmas paper, but not in a straight line.  I pulled it off and promptly ripped the paper in the process.  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ I cried.  I crumpled the paper up and prepared to start all over again.  Mr V had finished going through all the carrier bags.  ‘There are no Pro V1 golf balls,’ he said disappointedly.  I rocked back on my heels and regarded him.  ‘There’s no Father Christmas,’ I answered back, ‘but you don’t hear me complaining.’
The daughter came in.  ‘Oooh, Christmas presents.  What have you bought me?’  I stood up.  ‘Out!  Now!  All of you!’  I shooed them out and shut the door.  A quick check in the carrier bags had me opening the door once again and making a smart dash to the dog’s basket.  The dog looked at me as if to say spoilsport.  I removed the pack of chews and squeaky Father Christmas toy she’d swiped and took them back upstairs.
Meanwhile, I’m currently wrapped, stacked, ribboned and bowed and feeling tremendously proud of myself.  All that remains are the Christmas cards to write.  Which reminds me.  How do you know Santa is male?  Because no woman would wear the same outfit year after year...

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