Christmas is so last year I realise but sitting here, in my festive fat suit, I know the end of the road (or at least a goodly break) is both needed and neigh vis a vis the annual celebration at Casa Carmichael.
That is not to say we didn’t have a great time on Christmas Day. We did. My point is that this is only one of the twelve and those twelve tend to stretch and blur into a dark, wet, food filled dystopia that I am yet to pull out of.
Next year will be different. I have said it before. But this time I mean it.
The 25th itself was wonderful. We had half the fam around for a late late turkey and trimming lunch. Because Mr Carmichael has, over the last few years, teamed up with Nigella and put himself in charge of the bird (beak to table) my stress levels are mollified a tad and I am free(er) to get on with everything else.
My SIL brought a trifle. Not just any trifle. This was, sans doubt, the trifle of all trifles. To get any idea of the anticipation surrounding this trifle you must read, re-read, Me, a ‘Pampered Chef’ and check out the wharf sized container she set about filling D Day minus two. I kid you not!
Here is the trifle:
We played Human Cludo. It’s a brilliant game and I defy anyone to not enjoy it for hours and hours. Although a daughter various got herself murdered within the first 30 seconds the remaining Carmichaels had such a laugh. I have never seen our coal scuttle in quite so many inappropriate places and I still sport the bruises from a forced fist plunge into Daughter #1’s white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake (delicious) which we all know was cheating.
My niece and her boyfriend were accompanied by Finn, a Welsh Springer Spaniel who loves turkey, roast potatoes and cheese and crackers. He did not like the trifle.
I drank wine, water by the gallon and Berocca and thus avoided the Boxing Day hangover from hell which always starts with having to get up and cook breakfast for the waifs and strays who have slept at Casa Carmichael to avoid arrest and incarceration after a libation fuelled Crimble.
Mr Carmichael cooked breakfast. It was delicious. The outlaws left. I tried and failed to steal Finn and went for a well deserved nap. Rising, I raided the fridge and began to eat everything within. I watched TV while stuffing my face.
This extreme inaction set the dimension of action for the remaining ten days.
I went for a three mile walk along the Chess Valley (exception that proves rule) and spoke to lots of dog owners. I missed my dogs. It began to rain.
Home again I went on dog sites and checked out Welsh Springer Spaniel puppies.
I ate and drank a lot.
I played online scrabble.
And repeated day three (except for the walk – sore gluteus and rain).
Repeat of day four plus Anchorman 2 with Mr Carmichael. Dreadful.
I went food shopping, ate too much, broke out the Breaking Bad box set and sofa settled with Mr C for the duration. It was still raining.
I prepared for one of my most hated days of the year. My new Year’s Eve antipathy deserves (and will get) a post of its own.
I had an argument with my husband. Well, we have been in high security isolation. Tell me I’m not the only one.
I went to bed at 11.00pm and was woken at midnight by fire works.
Had Gracie and her current husband round for gammon (thank you Heston), mash and cabbage. And wine. And Bloody Mary’s. Bloody Fantastic.
Gracie and I planned our 2014 escapes while the ‘boys’ watched back to back football and shouted at the television.
Applied for a month long dog sit in Turkey. Call me crazy. Have heard nothing yet but will keep you posted.
I changed being mrscarmichael‘s banner image and tag line and got rid of the snow.
Watched the gutters overflow.
Day ten (today)
Spotting a bauble fall off the Christmas tree (droopage) as I pen this post. The gutters are still waterfalling as the rain/hail pelts down. There is thunder nearby. I am about to go food shopping. I think about a diet.
Days eleven and twelve
I shall apply for an online memoir writing course that I have been mulling over about for months. I will really.
I shall go out. Anywhere.
We shall take down the tree, wreath and festive lights. Mr C might chop up the fir for firewood.
I shall eat, drink and prepare for extreme January weight loss (chance will be a fine thing).
I shall not count the days until next Christmas. Because that would be foolishly depressing.
Here’s to 2014 and the surprise that is where I’ll be next Christmas.