Christmas is a bloody hard, bloody weird sort of time, especially when you are running away from your family for the second year running but will nevertheless have to face them all after Boxing Day, and especially when you’re on Clomid (fingernails? Who needs ’em!).
Therefore, The Hairy Farmer Family sent me a little parcel, that arrived a couple of days before our jail-break. H and I took it with us to An Hotel, and on Christmas morning, in pyjamas, drinking the admittedly unattractive tea you always seem to have made yourself in a hotel bedroom (I know it should have been Bucks Fizz), I ceremonially opened it.
And nearly fell off the bed laughing. I laughed for minutes on end, in fact, and laughed even harder when H said, bewildered, ‘How on earth did she get hold of that?’ And by the end of the laughing, I was more than a little teary-eyed and verklempt, and we had to put big boots on and go for a very long walk to make room for Christmas lunch.
I do so love the Internets. All the best people in the world live there.
For this is what HFF had sent me (and this is why):