The fire is lit, I've wrapped the spade i bought for the missus, I've sworn at the sellotape, I've switched on the fecking chrustmas tree lights*, she's making puddings for tomorrow, as i sip coffee and listen to Frank sinatra 's Christmas music (the soundtrack that played every year when I was a children).
Later I'm told we need more eggs- so that'll be in me. After that I might consider a nice malt.
*they flash by default. I can't stand flashing lights any more than I can tolerate everyone in the wife's family constantly talking through gobs stuffed with food - her mum is the worst offender by far. 15 times you have to press the stupid button on the plug, fifteen times, as they cycle through every irritating epileptic fit inducing sequence known to man and God, before they settle on a constant cold horrible white. FIFTEEN.
I don't know what happens after 15 ... I've never explored.