Reverse Yuletide-Robbery.
First things first, it has now become a Rafferty Christmas tradition:
Gareth and Mum get up first, co-incidentally, around the same time. Theresa follows. Dad follows. Belinda is last. Presents are unwrapped, mild sarcastic jokes are exchanged, and "it's" really over by 10am. Always. Every year.
Still, this year, we had a proper dinner, even if I'm too ill-disposed towards chicken to actually enjoy it. Listening to the second Garbage album now, debating when to go and watch Spider-Man 2, or to put on The Godfather instead. Eh, baddabing. I've made myself an offa' I can't refuse.
It snowed, for a bit, but promptly gave up. I've realised how often I use the word "promptly" in writing. There's just something blunt, British, and... well, I think, amusing about it.
The party last night was a bit of an anticlimax, and I didn't drink a drop - though fortunately, this meant I didn't spend a penny to do so. Ol' Scrooge, me.
My Dad and eldest sister are the least festive people the world over. I told them, I said "if you keep this up, Santa will shit down our chimney."
Well, I thought it was funny.
Got Dad a dancing Elvis-singing pig, from Boots. Thought that was funny too, but it turns out he can only holler the first couple of sentences of "Hound Dog." He does a little nose-wiggle too, so it's sort of value for money, but essentially I've been fleeced.
The nieces (and nephew) are visiting tomorrow, and will receive their ridiculous piles of assorted crap. My warnings of "he'd be happy with a box" have been promptly (!) ignored. Your advice is going unheeded, Beck.
Incidentally, it's nice to see kids react to Christmas. Reminds me how much I used to look forward to it. Granted, I lost a little sleep last night, but that was largely due to having gotten in at past midnight and not having finished The Shawshank Redemption like I promised myself I would.
I know. Hard life, ain't it.
Well, I'm going to eat a few mince pies, try to calm my stomach after Dad's "cooking," and watch some superheroes thoroughly hurt some evil-doers.
Toodle-pipsky.
Gareth and Mum get up first, co-incidentally, around the same time. Theresa follows. Dad follows. Belinda is last. Presents are unwrapped, mild sarcastic jokes are exchanged, and "it's" really over by 10am. Always. Every year.
Still, this year, we had a proper dinner, even if I'm too ill-disposed towards chicken to actually enjoy it. Listening to the second Garbage album now, debating when to go and watch Spider-Man 2, or to put on The Godfather instead. Eh, baddabing. I've made myself an offa' I can't refuse.
It snowed, for a bit, but promptly gave up. I've realised how often I use the word "promptly" in writing. There's just something blunt, British, and... well, I think, amusing about it.
The party last night was a bit of an anticlimax, and I didn't drink a drop - though fortunately, this meant I didn't spend a penny to do so. Ol' Scrooge, me.
My Dad and eldest sister are the least festive people the world over. I told them, I said "if you keep this up, Santa will shit down our chimney."
Well, I thought it was funny.
Got Dad a dancing Elvis-singing pig, from Boots. Thought that was funny too, but it turns out he can only holler the first couple of sentences of "Hound Dog." He does a little nose-wiggle too, so it's sort of value for money, but essentially I've been fleeced.
The nieces (and nephew) are visiting tomorrow, and will receive their ridiculous piles of assorted crap. My warnings of "he'd be happy with a box" have been promptly (!) ignored. Your advice is going unheeded, Beck.
Incidentally, it's nice to see kids react to Christmas. Reminds me how much I used to look forward to it. Granted, I lost a little sleep last night, but that was largely due to having gotten in at past midnight and not having finished The Shawshank Redemption like I promised myself I would.
I know. Hard life, ain't it.
Well, I'm going to eat a few mince pies, try to calm my stomach after Dad's "cooking," and watch some superheroes thoroughly hurt some evil-doers.
Toodle-pipsky.