Christmas comes but once too often
I know, it's tediously fashionable to be miserable about Christmas. But I'm a curmudgeon at heart and it's difficult to change my ways.
This year wasn't as bad as I had feared, although plans of having a few quiet moments to peruse Sir Benfro book two never came to anything. At least the nephews (and niece) are old enough to run around for more than five minutes without exploding into tantrums. I still managed to catch the christmas cold - shivering, sweating and dripping from the nose all at once is never fun - but thankfully it lasted only two days.
So now I am back in Wales. I think I managed to get over the visit north without insulting any of my family - at least not so badly that they'll never talk to me again. Aided by a bottle of Bruichladdich I even managed to survive the frozen nights in a house with no heating (or at least not in my room).
One of my better presents, in an odd sort of way, came from my mother. She had gone through her entire photograph collection and pulled out all the photos of me, put them in a shoe box and wrapped it all up nicely to go with the mauve socks, lurid kipper tie and oddly shaped jumper that are such trusty seasonal regulars. I'm taller than I was in 1970, fatter than I was in 1980 and somewhat less hairy than I was in 1990, though still adequately hirsute. The most noticeable thing about all of these photographs, man and boy, is how seldom I seem to be smiling. More often I look at the world with a slightly perplexed frown, bordering on a grimace. Am I still such a miserable sod?
This year wasn't as bad as I had feared, although plans of having a few quiet moments to peruse Sir Benfro book two never came to anything. At least the nephews (and niece) are old enough to run around for more than five minutes without exploding into tantrums. I still managed to catch the christmas cold - shivering, sweating and dripping from the nose all at once is never fun - but thankfully it lasted only two days.
So now I am back in Wales. I think I managed to get over the visit north without insulting any of my family - at least not so badly that they'll never talk to me again. Aided by a bottle of Bruichladdich I even managed to survive the frozen nights in a house with no heating (or at least not in my room).
One of my better presents, in an odd sort of way, came from my mother. She had gone through her entire photograph collection and pulled out all the photos of me, put them in a shoe box and wrapped it all up nicely to go with the mauve socks, lurid kipper tie and oddly shaped jumper that are such trusty seasonal regulars. I'm taller than I was in 1970, fatter than I was in 1980 and somewhat less hairy than I was in 1990, though still adequately hirsute. The most noticeable thing about all of these photographs, man and boy, is how seldom I seem to be smiling. More often I look at the world with a slightly perplexed frown, bordering on a grimace. Am I still such a miserable sod?
Comments
Merry New Year
;}#