I am only dropping you a very few lines because it is almost three in the morning and I am actually in bed.

It is nice to be here. It has been a very busy day and my feet hurt. Also, of course, it is Christmas Day now, and I can sleep for as long as I like, which is a splendid thought.

We have had our usual Christmas Eve dinner with Elspeth and her family, and Number One Daughter and Son-In-Law. This takes a dozen words to write but such a colossal amount of cooking to achieve. Fortunately Lucy was here, and she has been helping me all day.

We cooked pies and chicken, sausages and kebabs. We made tiny chocolate eclairs and jam-and-cream cakes. We made salad and baked potatoes with tomatoes and olive oil, and we made an enormous potato omelette. We ate all of this lot this evening.

Mark installed the new window in Lucy’s car and hung some fairy lights in the yard.

Oliver went to work. He is enjoying this at the moment and said this evening that it is good to be him. That is a jolly happy thing to feel at Christmas. Well, it is a happy thing to feel at any time, but it has an air of perfectly magical smugness at this time of year.

I am too tired to write really. My eyes are closing, and I keep nodding off, just a little, whenever I stop and think. The dogs are snoring on the floor next to me after a very intense day trying to befriend Lucy’s cats again. Mark has just got out of the shower, and all is well.

Merry Christmas. It is all very lovely here in our house. We have eaten and drunk magnificently well, we are warm and comfortable and happy. There is nothing more I could wish for.

See you tomorrow. Probably later on today.

Goodnight.