The Twelve Days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: two diamond earrings and Nigella’s Christmas on DVD.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: three Touche Eclat pens, two diamond earrings and Nigella’s Christmas on DVD.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: four Woolford stockings, three Touche Eclat pens, two diamond earrings and Nigella’s Christmas on DVD.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: five Singapore Slings (I could have said Tiffany rings but that would have been ridiculous)… four Woolford stockings, three Touche Eclat pens, two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: six Hermes scarves swaying, five Singapore Slings! Four Woolford stockings; three Touche Eclat pens; two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: seven bracelets jangling; six Hermes scarves swaying, five Singapore Slings! Four Woolford stockings; three Touche Eclat pens; two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: eight Mulberry handbags (Don’t pull that face! I didn’t get the Tiffany rings); seven bracelets jangling; six Hermes scarves swaying, five Singapore Slings! Four Woolford stockings; three Touche Eclat pens; two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: nine Tiffany charms (oh, what the hell); eight Mulberry handbags; seven bracelets jangling; six Hermes scarves swaying, five Singapore Slings! Four Woolford stockings; three Touche Eclat pens; two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: ten days in Aspen; nine Tiffany charms; eight Mulberry handbags; seven bracelets jangling; six Hermes scarves swaying, five Singapore Slings! Four Woolford stockings; three Touche Eclat pens; two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love have to me: eleven nights in Hawaii; ten days in Aspen; nine Tiffany charms; eight Mulberry handbags; seven bracelets jangling; six Hermes scarves swaying, five Singapore Slings! Four Woolford stockings; three Touche Eclat pens; two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: twelve days’ notice to vacate the premises and a letter from his solicitor advising me that my husband was divorcing me on the grounds of my unreasonable expectations and grasping approach to our marriage.

Merry Christmas, one and all!

Inspired by Julie, the wife of a friend at work, who has created a dish for each of the Twelve Days of Christmas. I'm hoping that she'll write a blog on which to post the photos of her very clever menus.

'Dear Santa, this year I'd like...'

I'm not feeling my best today.

The Little Prince has gone off to his dad's for Christmas and, although I'll get him back on Boxing Day, I still find it hard to be away from him on Christmas Day.  He always has a fantastic time, stays up too late at the type of family parties I'd have hated when I was married to his dad, so I don't worry about him.  I just miss him.

Also, I have some horrible bug which has made me waste the day, wandering around the house in my pyjamas and feeling guilty about everything I should be doing.  I've ended up on the sofa, eating pretzels and watching Nigella. Food porn.

Big Al's parents have just left after a pre-Christmas Christmas.  Gifs were exchanged.  Big Al had told me that he'd suggested my present from his folks and that it was going to be 'the best Christmas present ever' (more on this theme later).  'You'll love it!' he told me.  I was hoping that they'd splashed out and brought me a new ski jacket.  Or silver earrings.  

It was a Teasmade.  My own fault.  I make no secret of the fact that, in the event of a fire/flood/escape to a nuclear bunker, I would take with me:  son, husband, electric blanket and slippers.  Perhaps not in that order.

Maybe it's time for a change of image.  But not just yet.  My gym has now shut for the holidays which means that any activity is banned until January. We leave for Canada on New Year's Eve and I've done 3 weeks of exercise.  So it'll be another ski trip spent sweating on the easy runs and shouting at snow boarders. 

I think I'll cheer myself up by sneaking the Teasmade and new slippers into the suitcase.

P.S.  Regarding 'The Best Christmas Present Ever' - this week we were asked to email our contribution to the organisation's weekly newsletter for the Christmas edition.  

I sent in my memory of the best present I'd ever given.  A couple of years ago I gave Big Al an Anne Summers Fireman's Outfit.   Of course I insisted that he tried it on (before Christmas Morning mass).  

I have NEVER laughed as much as I did when he walked into the bedroom wearing blacker boxers, fake leather braces and luminous plastic cuffs.  The piece de resistance was a red PVC fold out fireman's helmet, which was too small and sat on his head like a child's sou'wester.

All very funny and entertaining, and I thought it would make an amusing story for the newsletter.  The trouble was, everyone else had written in about their Action Man, their Joe 90 gun, a lovely ski jacket (lucky cow) or paragliding over Table Mountain.  

Never mind.  We're going through a re-org soon.   Maybe they'll keep me on for comedy value?

The evidence, me Lud.

Re. my post Two Fat Ladies: for those of you who needed proof, see below. If you are of a sensitive disposition, look away now.

So, here I am having just been pulled off the floor. Nicely done, I don't think anyone around me noticed.

With tequila (note - I STILL have the red face).

Oh dear. What is going on with my backside? Perhaps its just a shadow.

Bless me, Father...

Nunhead Mum of One has tagged me to reveal 7 facts about myself as part of the Breast Cancer Awareness campaign (thank-you!).  I would attach the tag but I've been battling with the Edit functions on Big Al's Mac, (why the hell did we get a Mac?).  Anyway, it's too late in the evening to be trying to right click on a non right click mouse, so you'll just have to imagine the tag.

In keeping with my convent school upbringing, I've decided to arrange them in a Seven Deadly Sins style, so here goes:

Gluttony (over-indulgence and over consumption to the point of waste).  So, SO many to choose from, but the most festive would be eating a whole chocolate orange left by Father Christmas, before I even put a foot out of bed on Christmas morning.

Greed (a sin of excess, applied to the acquisition of wealth).  Possibly it would be paying £80 for a sable blusher brush from Harvey Nicks after the vulture-like cosmetic counter assistants had sold me the earth in a make-up bag. In my defence, I didn't realise that it cost that much until I'd left the store.  I decided that I had to keep it as, by that time, I'd drunk half a bottle of white wine to get over the shock and really couldn't be bothered to go back. 

Sloth (the failure to utilize one's talents and gifts).  Hmmn.  I do tell Big Al that I have a headache too often for his liking....

Lust (involving obsessive or excessive thoughts or desires).  This is quite closely tied up with Gluttony for me.  I'll leave it there.

Wrath (uncontrolled feelings of anger).  Don't get me started.  OK, if you insist - the top 3 things which make me angry:

1.  Women who take ages in the loo when there's a huge queue.  What. Are. You. Doing. In. There?  It takes me 2 minutes, three tops, to go to the loo.  There are 30 people waiting for you to finish.  Now is not the time to start rooting in your handbag for lipstick or to call your boyfriend on your mobile.  

In fact, there's another thing which I don't get - women who use their mobiles whilst they are on the loo.  It's not just that it's wrong and breaks an unwritten health rule, it's that this is my quiet time and I don't want a stranger to hear me pee-ing whilst their partner asks them what they want for tea.

2.  Hairdressers who are young enough to be my daughter.  What the hell happened there?

3.  Smug parents in coffee shops who use the rest of us as their audience as they're talking to their children.   For double points, they talk to their children in the third person. The whole family will be in Boden, the mother will have a Kath Kidston accessory tucked away somewhere (so 2006) and the father will be wearing a trilby cocked to one side and will read the Guardian.

Envy (resentment that another person has something one may perceive as lacking).  A difficult one this, I don't really want to own up to Envy.  Probably something to do with babies.  i.e. Big Al and I can't have any, at a time when most of our friends are having their second or third.  Of course, I'm very happy for them all.  Except Big Al's friend who we met up with at the weekend and who has a wife pregnant with their first.  And who was already talking about 'having another two at least'.  Not the most sensitive of men, but I consoled myself with the fact that he was wearing a Harris Tweed jacket and looked a bit of an arse.

Pride (a desire to be more important or attractive than others).  Well, who wouldn't?  

I'll get my rosary, shall I?

Two fat ladies - 88

Thank God.  The office Christmas party has been and gone.  It wasn't the one for which I'm planning to dress up as the Virgin Mary, it was the one with the dress in which I was going to look like a squashed Quality Street (the hazelnut in caramel one).

Anyway, I returned the purple dress.  And the two red ones which followed.  I finally settled on a black dress which I couldn't afford but which was very long so covered my legs and very low cut so showed off the only plus points about gaining weight.  

I looked passable, even quite nice.  Not the 'quite nice' as Keira Knightley describes herself in 'Love Actually' when she watches her wedding video.  'Oh, I look quite nice' she coos self-depreciatingly when we all know that SHE knows she is in fact quite stunning and we all want to kill her for her youth and skinny-ness.  

No, I looked quite nice, as in 'OK', not TOO fat.  Or so I thought.

'Twas a traditional office Christmas do - got ready for about 3 hours with my friends Kelly, Rachael and Mandy, drank Cava and cassis and discussed the possibility of giving the whole thing a miss and just staying in our hotel room upstairs, getting drunk.  Finally, we decided we'd spent too much money and time for that and trooped downstairs in time for mulled wine before dinner.

Dinner went without a hitch but I knew I'd drunk too much when I found myself telling my gay work colleague that I bet I could turn him.  I'm cringing as I write this.

But it gets worse.

First, I fell over on the dance floor - YES - it was ME!  There is one at every office party and it was me.  My only consolation is that this happened at the beginning of the evening before I was truly drunk.   I tripped over the hem of my too long dress and laughed so much that I couldn't get up.

Then my Australian colleague (the one who runs marathons before breakfast) asked if my breasts were real, poked her fingers down my dress and jiggled them about.  

Soon after this, I watched as my friend Carl skidded on his knees across the dance floor like a five year old at a wedding reception - very funny until I remembered he'd borrowed Big Al's £400 hand built DJ and trousers.  

Tequila, sambuca and some self conscious dancing like my mum followed.  I took myself off to bed after I found myself shouting backing vocals to 'New York, New York' across the bar to Paul, the Irishman responsible for the tequila and sambuca.  Kelly and I had found it hard to say no to a very drunk male equivalent of Father Ted's housekeeper.   'Go on, go on, go on, go on.  It's only a little shot'.  

Anyway, it was time for a swift exit and as I stumbled to bed, I congratulated myself on surviving the evening without too much humiliation.

Sadly, the next morning,  I was sent a link to someone's Facebook photos.  There I was, red faced and sweating, doubled up with laughter after being retrieved from the floor.  There I was, downing shots with my cleavage hanging over the remains of the turkey dinner.  But worst of all, there were Kelly and I, at the beginning of the evening,  wearing dresses which we thought had turned us into to Amazonian Angelina lookalikes but which made us look like the 'Before' photos for Weight Watchers recruits, on our way to the Gala Bingo Christmas party.

I can't bear it.  I went back to the gym this week and have been 3 times since.  I must, I must, I must reduce my bust.