Pre-stuffed

Usually, by this time in December we have locked up the house and departed for Blighty. But due to various literary commitments (Spouse, not me),the scarcity of escape travel routes out of France and general terminal flakiness (me, not snow or dandruff), we shall be departing in a few days. This rather pathetic late-in-the-day-ness means I will have zero time to Christmas shop.

Obviously, this comes as a huge relief. Christmas shopping this year has been completed by the fire, laptop on knee, glass in hand. I reckon I have saved money and sanity in equal measure. Not for me the scrum down on the high street amongst the sharp elbowed old bags, pick pockets, bomb scares, suffocating lighting, fainting episodes, shouty shriek-fests and losing it in Hamleys.

Yep. Better off by the fire.

Not in the spirit of Christmas, rather in the spirit of doing-as-little-as-possible, I have jumped into the slacker-mum camp. This year, Sprog is receiving a pre-stuffed Christmas stocking. This strategy carries with it some risk. The pre-stuffers in a windy Hitchin warehouse say this stocking is appropriate for an eight year old boy. It will be interesting to see what the little Prince fishes out on Christmas morning. If he produces a pair of rubber comedy tits then perhaps my view on delegating just about everything in my life may need adjustment.

Oooh, I just heard Joni Mitchell's song 'River' on the radio. Beautiful song. Admittedly, it was being performed by a third-rate singer in this instance, but it reminded me of the fine original version by Joni. I had never considered it a Christmas song, but I suppose the opening lyric 'It's coming on Christmas, they're cutting down trees, putting up reindeer and singing songs of joy and peace, oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on' make it as topical as pretty much any Christmas song you care to mention. Don't let the fact the lyrics look pedestrian put you off, dressed in a languorous vocal and with exquisite phrasing they are transformed into pure poetry. Here, a Christmas present, just for you...enjoy.

The annual freezer de-frosting ceremony has been taking place. Using my Bear Grylls novelty ice-pick I have so far hacked out four plastic bags full of stale bread off-cuts. I clearly fully intended to use them for breadcrumbs in some un-named, unimagined and er uncooked recipe. They are now in the bin. Along with the vile sludgy brown soup that looks like frosted turd pudding. I rescued the raspberries, however. The very same raspberries I lovingly collected every day over the summer and placed into a tupperware for later use. Last night I cooked a raspberry pavlova. Being a meringue virgin, I approached the exercise with trepidation. But I must have been thinking of souffle, which is a complete bastard. Meringue turned out to be a doddle. Tasty too. We munched happily on the crunchy, chewy, sweet meringue combined with tart, mushy raspberries whilst watching Harry Judd get his champion's glitterball. Pavlova, Strictly, there was a pleasing and totally unintentional synchronicity to it all. We really do live on the edge out here, you know. It's that mental.

Back to the present. If I want to avoid my maternal credit rating being further downgraded I had better go now and fetch my child from his sleepover. I'm just rehearsing the conversation in my head now...'Oh, was it only one night? I must have misunderstood. Bloody French language.'

I hope you all get what you want for Christmas. Toaster, hair straighteners, peace, love, a stable economy and some Uggs.

Merry Christmas my lovelies!

Mya x