Item – Christmas shopping mostly done. I have one specialist art supplies shop to raid for my sister’s present, and then I will fall face-down into the gluten-free boxes at Hotel Chocolat (again) and all will be well. Anything else that goes wrong will be entirely the fault of the British Postal Service. My conscience is clear.
Item – I actually got completely Queenie at the work Christmas party, and for just about the first time ever, swore, cheerfully, inventively, and at length, in front of my colleagues (but not my boss! I have some self-preservations instincts left! Go me! See the little goblin, see his little feet…). My colleagues have taken to patting me on the arm whenever they see me, and giggling.
Item – I did get to see a proper old-fashioned in-a-freezing-Victorian-barn-of-a-church carol concert, and now I am happy. I may be a godless heathen, but I do so love carols. Especially with a proper well-sung descant or two, an organ extravaganza, and an outbreak of Handel’s Messiah. And all the proper traditions properly followed – the truly disgusting wine served during the interval, the tiresome children sat directly behind you kicking the back of your pew and whining incessantly in the quiet bits without being dragged out bound and gagged by their parents, the person next to you singing very loud and very flat, the person the other side of you attempting the descant part for Hark The Herald Angels Sing with ear-watering results.
Item – We shall not cast our eyes down and to the right. We’ll only see the weight-loss ticker and it will depress us all. It’s as if, being denied wheat also mincepiescakespuddingsbiscuits AT CHRISTMAS, I’ve had to somehow compensate with Excessive Consumption Of Brown Rice And Potatoes. Which have no wheat in. So I can eat them. It’s fine, damn it. Yes it is. No it isn’t.
Item – I think, I only think, mind you, that I am feeling more energetic since I gave up wheat. This is very unscientific, because I also was recovering from surgery a few weeks ago, which tires one out quite noticeably you know, and I tend to feel perkier after ovulation because my reproductive organs have called a truce on their persistant turf war for control of entire pelvis brought on by Oestrogen, Hormone of Satan. My mother thinks I sound well on the telephone, how’s that for evidence.
Item – There are a few more days of work to wrestle through. And then, we descend into the bunker of the family. Armed with nuclear-armageddon-hoarding quantities of pregnancy tests and sanitary towels. Oh, my God. This is going to be so awkward. Hold me.