Festive Snapshot

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It is eleven o'clock on Christmas Eve. You are lying almost naked in bed: still enough to hear the jingle of Rudolph's bells as he munches through yet another carrot, when you feel a flutter of something on your thigh. You ignore it and carry on reading something utterly scrumptious, sipping from a warm glass of cinnamon milk and feeling that the world is as it should be, when buzzzzzzzz, flitter, flutter, buzzzzzzzzzz, something crawls across your (slightly rotund) tummy and instinctively you swipe your hand across your stomach to catch it, throwing back layers of patchwork quilts, swearing like a fishwife and staring in astonished slow motion at the giant wasp attached to the little finger of your left hand.

Yes people, in the midst of a British Winter on the most festive night of all, a wasp had the downright bloody cheek to sting me! A wasp! Did he not know he should have died three months before? Had he been sharing my bed for all that time just waiting to inflict a teeny bit of festive misery upon my ample person?

When the scandal of it all was over and I had called almost everyone I know to report said misdemeanor (I suspect many thought I'd been on the juice), I lay awake worrying about the possibility of a hive of mean bee's in my mattress and thinking about the wonder that is Christmas and how the magic of it all never quite goes away even when you are thirty five and  nine months old. It maybe for children but it also exists to remind oh so dull grown ups that it is ok to shake off the monotony of maturity and wear a silly hat while you sup a glass of egg nog...

I'm Skippy the Kangaroo at Christmas. Stupidly delighted with teeny pleasures. Thrilled to bits with the mini pretend silver hip flask I got in my cracker and feeling full of festive cheer for people I don't particularly like. I'm the first one to shove a paper hat on my head and that person in the family determined to fit the sheer heaven that is a late afternoon nap into my Christmas Day. I go through my present pile a hundred times over piling on a quite ludicrous combination of scarves and slippers and necklaces and lipsticks just because someone cared enough to wrap them up for me and drink my last alcoholic drink with  my last mouthful of  turkey and start whining about  a hangover  as the credits start rolling on Coronation Street.

And so now another Christmas is over and the tingly freshness of a New Year full of promise is dancing in my exhausted old veins. The house is full of an exuberantly horrible amount of toy packaging and I simply cannot wait to make my annual excursion to the shops to select a diary resplendent with invisible joy and the kinds of teeny stings we swallow daily and if we are to become better people, set aside and smile long enough to start believing in our own contentment regardless.

I believe in it. I really do. My broadband still hasn't been re-connected and my piggy bank is empty. My darling son told me my eyes were "cracking" yesterday and his estranged Father wants to come home to a life less ordinary than the one he once chose to set aside for another day. My book remains a twinkle in my eye and the only thing sharing my bed is a overgrown wasp and yet and yet and yet...

The house is cosy and warm. I am wearing the cutest white fuzzy Nordic patterned sheepskin lined Ugg type boots and the Christmas tree lights are still blinking as I sit curled up watching gorgeous tv like the little bit of heaven that was Noel Streatfields "Ballet Shoes" last night. I don't fear life like I used to. I'm not frightened of making decisions that are only mine to make, nor of  discovering my very own New England, and if I listen very, very carefully I can hear the tip tap of creativity waiting to fizz it's way into a scrumptious New Year like a titchy little bottle of cranberry lemonade....

I truly hope all your Christmas have been quite as enriching. Let's have another jammy dodger in celebration of all that is, all that was and all that one day may hopefully be...

On My Wishlist...