Thursday, December 30, 2010

Having My Cake

So anyway, H and I sat under the tree on Christmas morning and unwrapped our jumpers. Yes, we bought each other jumpers. "Darling, it's over. We're middle aged." I said, and hugged her tightly for a fearful moment, as we stared together into the oncoming storm. If the experience contained any truth, then the future will be mostly about baubles...

If I say that I hardly left the kitchen all day it will sound like a complaint, but in fact it was highly rewarding - and not just because of the constant supply of port and chocolates. I reduced raveous in-laws to muffled moans for mercy not once, but twice, and once they had been sent packing loaded with my "Nuclear Ginger Cake 2.0", my triumph was universally acknowledged. Domestic godhood is mine.

Meanwhile, the England & Wales Throwing Things at Australians team secured custody of the burned sticks for another spell, and I got to watch the Ospreys spank the Scarlets back west so hard, what was left of them probably washed up on the Wexford coast. As we always say in these parts, it's not really Christmas until you've stuffed the Turks.

It's shaping into a highly satisfying Winterval, and it's not over yet. Middle-age ain't so bad.