Okay, it is two o’clock in the morning and I might not be writing very much.
We have had a very splendid Christmas Eve, the day filled with cooking and the night filled with roister-doistering, which we have done until we can barely keep our eyes open.
I have eaten so much that I am feeling distinctly uncomfortable even though I am wearing dungarees, and the drinking started off with blackcurrant gin cocktails and then continued with more blackcurrant gin cocktails.
We cooked sausages and ham and chicken and lots of puddings. There was cheese and fish and bread and salad and Elspeth brought a splendid pie. There were olives and grapes and peppers and pickles, and I ate some of everything.
I ate rather a lot of everything actually.
The house was full to bursting with laughing people, and we had the loveliest time.
What was more, the first laughing people had just gone when the door opened and Lucy and Jack arrived, so we started laughing all over again.
They have all gone to bed except me and I will be going to bed in about three sentences. It might be Christmas but I feel it might not be a good moment for creative composition.
Actually it is a rubbish moment for creative composition. My head feels as though somebody has stuffed it full of one of the poopys’ cushions.
Tomorrow it is Christmas. We are going to eat too much then as well, and we might watch a film.
Oliver is going to go out for a run with Number One Daughter in the morning. She is coming at ten o’clock.
It is probably time I went to bed.
Merry, merry Christmas
