Last night was mental. I think catbo may be the only person who might understand that my mum + the Nash Ensemble + Bernard Haitink + the Wigmore Hall = total classical-music-world meltdown, but yeah. It does.
My dad entertained himself by upsetting members of his family. I entertained myself by making a beeline for the nearest gay bloke - who looked rather like a drunk Jude Law - and talking to him about Giles Coren, whom, it turns out, neither of us would say no to. There's always one. :)
My dining room is a clutter of bags, and all of them are filled with presents. My mother, and indeed any number of other people, can be heard at this time of year muttering 'consumerism' and 'lost its meaning' and so on, but damn it, I like presents, and the only meanings Christmas ever had for me were as a time to make the house as magically beautiful as possible, and as a time to secretly show members of the suddenly-together family what we'd got for other members of the family and look at one another with sparkling eyes because we knew they'd love it. I don't see anything wrong with that - of course I don't. But far be it from me to stop x family deciding There Will Be No Presents This Year and all taking off to Tunisia to ride around on goats and learn Russian or something.
Somewhat bizarrely (I've probably pointed this out every year) my music of choice for decorating the tree is this - goodness knows how it happened, one year I was doing the tree thinking about Mrs. Mouse's Christmas as usual and the next I was doing it to the strains of possibly-Irish women singing possibly-Irish songs about death. It's absolutely beautiful music, though. I thought I'd lost it this year, but it always turns up in the end.
Anyway, yes, sorry, I do go on, don't I? Mum's coming back now and we've got to load the car and then try not to fight for the next three hours. Heigh ho. :) Love, to those as wants it.