We have come home.
It is the nicest feeling.
Somebody who cares about me had left a lovely present for me. It was that the house was beautifully tidy and clean, the dishcloths soaking in bleach in the sink, and everything feeling and smelling Christmassy and lovely.
Obviously it was me. All the same it was ace to come home.
We had barely made it to breakfast this morning. I was the first to stir, and looked sleepily at my watch only to discover that it was nine o’ clock.
Obviously I leapt guiltily out of bed and into the shower. Once suitably refreshed I roused Mark and the children, and then called Number One Daughter to see if they had finished in the gym yet.
It turned out that they were still in bed as well.
I stopped rushing about then, and we ambled down to breakfast at a slower, groggier pace, to suit the needs of the children.
We had several courses of breakfast, accompanied by a lot of coffee. I had scrambled eggs and sausages, with hot bread rolls and cheese.
We thought on balance that everything had really turned out jolly well, possibly even rather better than in previous years. This time last year we had rinsed our bank account into minus figures and had ghastly hangovers. This year we were a bit weary and fuddled, but still solvent and certainly not gazing at the sausages and wondering about perhaps dashing out to the loo.
We had a subdued sort of breakfast, and then packed. There are always mountains of luggage at the end of the weekend, as if it multiplies whilst it is waiting for us in the hotel room, and it was a squeeze to get it all into the lift.
We dumped it with the concierge and went for a last wander around the Christmas markets, where we blew our last cash on mulled wine and hot chocolate and a butter dish with bright red stripes which when we got it home turned out not to be the right size for butter. We liked it anyway, so it didn’t matter.
We were all partied out. We left the Midland, not regretfully, but contentedly, because we were full to bursting with good times, and did not feel the smallest need for any more, like not needing a second pudding when you have already had cocktails and three courses of dinner and good wine and brandy.
We went to see my parents, who had not been able to make it to the party.
They had done lunch for us.
This was absolutely splendid, because it was just what we needed, interesting cheese and salad and a home-baked pie, just enough to be absolutely satisfying without being so heavy that we all started to feel uncomfortable again. We collapsed sleepily in front of their log fire with mince pies and coffee, until it started to go dark.
We knew that we ought to go, not least because our friends who were looking after the dogs had called, suggesting that our dogs were loveable but an absolute nuisance and that their lives would be better without them.
It turned out that Roger Poopy had had a poo issue on their carpet.
We went home.
Roger Poopy did not have any poo issues at our house, so that was all right, perhaps he had got it all out of his system. We were relieved about that.
We have not finished unpacking yet. Actually we have hardly unpacked anything at all. We have put some things away and drunk some cups of tea and become reacquainted with the dogs. We have lit the fire and the lights on the Christmas tree and a grateful but hopeful candle to the Money Gods.
It is lovely to be home. We can relax now into a truly merry Christmas. The exciting bit is done, and now we can eat and watch films and sleep whenever we like.
I am feeling very happy indeed with the world tonight.
