It’s that oddball week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve when nobody is sure what day or time it is, how many mince pies constitute an adequate breakfast, when the bins might next be collected, and whether or not the cat has been fed. We don’t even have a cat (sadly), so this problem really shouldn’t tax us as much as it does.
I was back at work yesterday. Driving to the hospital on near-empty roads, I battled anxious thoughts about whether it really was definitely, definitely Friday, and whether our non-existent cat would starve whilst I was out.
Meanwhile, I hope that your Christmas was peaceful, joyful, yarnful, and that it involved at least nine of your favourite types of chocolate. Here at Twisted Towers we were under the weather with lurgies, but we muddled through as best we could, and four of our closest relatives came to stay.
The Twinnage (at the ripe old age of nine) have probably reached peak Christmas-enthusiasm… at least I hope they have, because their brains might just explode if they ramp it up any more. Even though their sceptical little minds spotted the plot-holes in the concept of Father Christmas several years ago, they still love this time of year for its abundance of chocolate, family, and relaxed bedtimes.
One of the Twinnage staged his own version of a mummers play. He’d been planning it for weeks, and had roped in the Stoic Spouse to help him make a dragon’s head. Meanwhile I was tasked with crocheting some claws on the tips of his dragon paws.
Other than my crocheted claw-creation, I didn’t get a great deal of yarnery done this Christmas. In rare idle moments, I turned the heel of a sock. (Stitch-markers in the picture below were handmade in glass by my friend Selma @eclectichomelife. How beautiful and thoughtful a gift?)
I spent a chunk of Christmas morning rootling around in the back garden (dressed in my smartest clothes), hunting parsnips for Christmas lunch.
Fortunately, parsnip-hunting isn’t too dangerous, as long as you don’t let the parsnips sense that you’re scared. You have to watch the bigger ‘snips, though. I bent my spade digging this monster out of the ground a while ago:-
I didn’t even know you could bend a spade but there you are: another utterly useless fact occupying valuable space in my brain. And now it’s taking space in your brain, too, space that was probably previously occupied by something useful such as the capital of Lesotho or the name of your spouse. That’s why I refer to my husband as the Stoic Spouse – I can’t remember his real name. You know that thing where you’re introduced to someone and you immediately forget their name, and time passes on and on, beyond the point where you can reasonably ask again without looking like a total idiot? Yeah? Well twelve years of marriage is definitely past that point.
So that was our Christmas. How was yours? Fortunately the lurgy has receded enough for me to get back to running. It’s going to take a good few miles to run off those mince pies, though. Ouch.