I'll give you ho ho ho

I'm afraid. Christmas lists and mails are flying thick and fast and the gorge-fest that is The Season to be Jolly (tm) rapidly approaches. In-depth discussions clog my gmail, about cheese and beer and breakfast and who's cooking what on which night. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for planning ahead, especially when you're dealing with a multiplicity of mouths to feed and childers to entertain. It's just that it all happens so quickly this Christmas thing and then before you know it you're staring into the frozen abyss of January, the ghostly taste of brandy butter lingering on your tongue.

Perhaps it's the cold and the dark nights that seem to dramatically accelerate the hours (duh William, ya think?) but Christmas in Africa seemed to drag on interminably. The day itself lasted forever. Up with the larks, or in our case, hoopoes, tapping away frantically (no Spencer, not that sort of tapping away) at the dead elms lining our property. (dutch elm disease, tis a bitch) We'd stretch our toes down to the ends of our beds to provoke a delicious rustling from the sack/pillow case of wonderful things nestled there. From that point on it was impossible to sleep. We'd drag on our Sunday finery and make the obligatory trip to our local church to drone some ghastly hymns and shake sweaty paws. In the space of minutes the thermometer would rise dramatically, hats would wilt, ties loosen and all would eye the door with the sort of fervor our Rev could only dream of. Eventually it was off with the nylon trousers/school shirt combo and on with the boxers and the new Willie Worm t-shirt santa/mater had scored me. Foodandpresentsandfoodandmadgameofcricketonthelawn before an afternoon lull to regain our strength. Hopeless really as it is now 40 degrees C and all have been felled by a mighty fist of heat. Time is molasses as the children gather at the shallow end of the pool, cramming watermelon and mangoes into the last available crevices in their bodies and praying for hot fat beads of rain to end their suffering.

Naturally I am expecting something similar in Fumbuckshire or wherever we are gathering (where are we gathering?) except for the bit about heat and perhaps, watermelons. As entertainment rep, I'll be taking my duties very seriously, so all aboard the er fun bus, Chrissie is upon us.

B