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We all wore wellies and I wore false nails. In fact my lovelies, the reason why I haven’t bored you with my dalliances in the past seven days is not because I was up to my eyes in mud but because I am the kind of woman whose vanity knows no bounds and I simply cannot type when I’ve got plastic nails glued to my fingertips.  So smack me on the bottom with the Womans  Weekly.

Thank heavens I’m awash with news. Last weekend was spent in the splendour of a converted barn in Staffordshire (With the motley crew walking through Dovedale above) and yesterday we traipsed up the dunes of Mablethorpe to see a thousand seals giving birth to fuzzy white pups on the beach on which they cavort on an annual basis…

So it has been a week of wellies and stepping stones.  Grief cuddled up in giggles and walks in the ountryside. Baths taken in beamed rooms with slipper baths to die for. Hours curled up reading  Winifred Pecks‘ Home For The Holidays and Jane Brockets’ Gentle Art of Domesticity. Dreams made of jam tarts and cosy socks. Dinners of creamy black pepper mashed potato and the quiet realization that I can be truly terrible company and most wicked of all, couldn’t quite give a damn…

And then there was home. A fluorescent light installed in the kitchen after seven years of asking.  Deep rooted dirt  finally revealed and just as soon banished. Marks romance declared kaput and goodness knows what written large across his face. Slipcovers washed in a fit of aggravated domesticity and too many run-ins with my crazy postman as a result of Christmas shopping on the world wide web…

Saturday night I donned my copper colored gladrags and took to the streets with my darling Mummies in tow. Carrot and turnip and spicy sausage consumed in early celebration of Christmas, followed by port and stilton and gin and lemonade provided by someone I adored as a teenager and who took  advantage of my general bonhomie to ask me to adore him all over again. (I swear men only find me desirable when I am to be found with a mouthful of chocolate torte and a spoonful of double cream dribbling down my chin…).

And now it is December and there isn’t a child in the house washed. I want to be sitting next to my Mum, reading quietly under the vast beams of someone else’s house. I want Christmas to be three months away and Christmas Eve to be tomorrow and for there to be a big bowl of cheesy bacon Winter night soup bubbling on the stove.  I wish the Christmas tree was already blinking in the corner of the room and life wasn’t one long round of tidying up lego and feelings, rooting through drawers full of junk and minds full of memories.  I want to live in wellies and wear stilettos to bed.  I want to treasure forever the memory of watching Finn write F-I-N-L-E-Y  at the bottom of a letter to Santa Claus and feel as absolutely safe always as I did holding my Dad’s hand as we crossed the stepping stones of Dovedale.

I want it to be  December always. For there to be family forever.  And for the man who asked me to abandon blog posts as long as this and sum up my world in sentences of just six words, I say only this…

Tempus fugit, but December is bliss.