Here it is, Christmas Eve. Today, I have made half a dozen beds for visitors arriving over the next couple of days, washed the kitchen floor, done a couple of loads of washing, dusted, vaccuumed, shopped (twice), baked, made eight mini-trifles - two standard and six Black Cherry chocolate and fondled the presents under the tree. Tonight, I will make a peach upside-down pudding and a smoked trout salad (washed down with a rather nice Merlot).
Tomorrow, the real cooking begins - after I have trashed the aforementioned presents. We'll begin with Vanilla French Raison Toast, then mince pies, followed by prawn cocktails, roast chicken with all the trimmings and the trifles accompanied by a nice Sauvignon Blanc. For dinner, there'll be roast pork with potato and leek bake and green beans followed by the Christmas Pud my brother made for us and custard, and a Cabernet Merlot. After that... well... I'm guessing the exercise bike for an hour or so if I'm not too, ah, tired. And then I shall relax and think it fortunate this day only comes around once a year, while playing with the loot.
Actually, I have no idea if I'm getting any toys this year. I've poked and prodded and fondled and shaken and rattled, but none make any noise - damn it.
So. Happy Christmas everyone. Be calm in the face of the weird relatives, be understanding of the irritating children and be ferocious in protecting your own toys. Remember: all that happens this season is grist to your writing mill.
The Australian version of the 12 Days of Christmas:
Twelve possums playing,
Eleven lizards leaping,
Ten wombats washing,
Nine crocs a-snoozing?
Eight dingos dancing,
Seven emus laying,
Six sharks a-surfing,
Five kangaroos,
Four lyrebirds,
Three wet galahs,
Two snakes on skis,
And a kookaburra in a gum tree.
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