Oh come, all ye fretful

  


It was Sunday evening. We’d decided to go to a Christmas carol service at the local church. I’m a little apprehensive about taking both the children with us for fear that the birth of the baby Jesus is going to be sound-tracked by H’s baby bowel movements and M’s random stories about dinosaurs, all enhanced by the church acoustics. The promise of a mince pie and sloe gin afterwards keeps me focused though and we are also due to meet some friends and their two young children there as well. So, if M kicks off – I thought – we have safety in numbers.

 

We arrive early to a packed church with hardly any seats left. After a lot of festive faffing, we find ourselves pressed into a pew near the middle (not conducive if we need to make a swift exit). Our friends manage to squeeze themselves into a corner at the back. I think that it’s actually really quite nice that so many people still flock to Christmas Carol services. Most of whom, I imagine, would not have expected a two-and-a-half year old to act as if she were drunk…

 

Here’s how the evening panned out:

 

Greeting/First Carol: M is wedged in between her mum and I, whilst my wife has H strapped to her using the baby wrap. M’s quiet at this point because she’s still weighing up the situation. Meanwhile, I’m absolutely sweltering in my fleece and unable to take it off because doing so would also lift up my t-shirt to reveal a shameful ‘Dad podge’ – a legacy of the fact that I’ve barely exercised in the last month. I also really need a wee.

 

First Reading: It goes quiet as the first reader takes their place at the lectern. They’ve probably practiced endlessly and have waited weeks for this moment. They are maybe rather nervous, but proud. They open their mouth to speak but their words are almost immediately punctuated by the sound of a toddler loudly asking “WHERE’S MY FRIEND?” Her Mum and I explain that her friend is at the back of the church with her Mummy and Daddy and that it would be really nice if M spoke in a whispering voice. The exact type of voice that both Mummy and Daddy are using now, but without the air of embarrassment and desperation.

 

Second Carol: M has got the idea that she can stand on the pew when we all stand up to sing. She does so, but also marches on a spot a bit as well, lending a more out-of-tune, percussive feel to ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ than is really necessary. Suddenly, those Zara boots we bought for her don’t seem like such a good idea. 

 

Second Reading: “WHERE’S THE LADY?” With no thought for my own bladder, I sit M on my lap so she can see the lady reading the second lesson.

 

Third Carol: (for which the choir sing the first verse and the congregation remain seating): M struggles to grasp with the concept that the congregation don’t join in with the first verse, so she turns around and loudly implores everyone to “STAND UP!!” I sit her down and my wife frantically explains the situation to M, before she can accuse anyone of spilling her pint.

 

Third Reading: “WHAT’S THE LADY SAYING??”

 

Fourth Carol: Calm is resumed. I breathe. It’s still really warm though, so I’m desperately hoping for a draft or a small gust of air from somewhere, anywhere. There are people in the church with thick winter coats on – how are they not just sweat puddles by now? “DADDY, WHY AREN’T YOU SINGING?” asks my inquisitive daughter during one of the quieter bits. “Because Daddy has a singing voice like a strangled cockerel”, I don’t reply. Instead I mime exuberantly, as if Christmas itself depends on it.

 

Fourth Reading:  M is studying the order of service and then drops it. I pick it up, she drops it again. All this leaning forward is not helping.

 

Fifth Carol: Choir only, this time. My wife and I realise the next two hymns are also choir only. We exchange a worried look and start to wonder how many people would notice if we snuck out mid-carol.

 

Fifth Reading: M is still sitting on my lap. She starts bouncing up and down. My bladder is NOT IMPRESSED. Meanwhile, H has woken up and immediately demands to be fed. My wife springs into action like a breast-feeding ninja and H is sucking away quite happily within 20 seconds. 

 

Sixth Carol: M is looking at the leaflet again and decides to enter into a Q&A with her mum as to where the three wise men in the picture are going: 

–          M: “ARE THEY GOING TO SCHOOL?”

–          My wife (quietly): “No, they’re off to see the baby Jesus…can you speak in a quiet little voice, please?”

–          M: “NO, THEY ARE GOING TO SCHOOL!” *waves leaflet frantically, hitting a feeding H on the head with it*

–          My wife: “Shhhhhhhh!!”

 

Sixth Reading:  M has discovered the little yellow envelopes that are at the end of the pew for the church donations. A lot of them end up on the floor. There are also a couple of pens there so , thankfully, this keeps her amused during the reading. 

 

Seventh Carol: As well as holding M as we resume the standing (and stamping) for ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’, I fill in my address details on one of the few envelopes that hasn’t now been defaced and place some coins inside. Who says men can’t multi-task?

 

Seventh Reading:  “I WANT COINS IN HERE”- M thrusts an empty envelope in our faces. To distract her, I frantically find an envelope that she hasn’t yet scribbled on. She duly obliges.

 

Eighth Carol: The collection occurs during this one. The man collecting the envelopes picks up the discarded, scribbled-on ones from the floor (as well as the laminated description as to why the yellow envelopes are there in the first place) and places them back on the pew. I mouth “thank you” and smile apologetically. He ignores me.

 

Eighth Reading: Is this one of the longer ones? It feels like one of the longer ones. M’s getting really restless now. It won’t be long before the birth of baby Jesus is being proclaimed alongside a loud verbal request to watch ‘The Snowman’ for the umpteenth time this weekend.

 

Ninth Carol: I need to wee. I need to wee. I need to w…OH COME LET US ADOOOORE HIM!

 

Ninth Reading/Blessing: For her swansong, M decides to try and go for a walk around. She makes it to the end of the pew before tripping over her own fleece which was by my feet, staggers backwards and lands loudly in a heap of hymn books, coats and order of service leaflets, ending up at the feet of the man sitting next to my wife. In her own ‘mic drop’ moment, she picks herself up and immediately struts towards our friends at the back of the church, oblivious to the fact she nearly trips up an elderly lady with a walking stick.

 

Merry Christmas, everyone 😀

Oh karma, my karma

“Who so diggeth a pit shall fall therein.” – Proverb

“Like gravity, karma is so basic we often don’t even notice it.” – Sakyong Mipham

“Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma, chameleon.” – Boy George

In all honesty, I can’t remember the year or exactly how old I was when this incident took place, but let’s just say that it was one summer in the early 90s whilst I was still in my early teens, was yet to buy my first Pink Floyd album and it was also during a period in which my acne practically had its own postcode.

My parents and I were on holiday in Argyll, western Scotland. We used to spend a number of holidays there as we all loved the area, it was beautiful, peaceful and relaxing – apart from when the wind really picked up from the sea and started removing the tiles from the roof of the cottage we stayed at as if they were confetti.

Unfortunately, this story involves a moment that rather punctured that peaceful, relaxing vibe. It is at this moment that I should warn you not to read any further if you are just about to eat, still eating, slightly squeamish or just getting a bit bored (I promise that I won’t be offended).

Anyhow, to very briefly set the scene, when we stayed there, I used to sleep in one of those bunk beds with a wooden-slatted base at the bottom. Sometimes, I slept on the top bunk, sometimes I slept at the bottom, I was a crazy, unpredictable child you see. Both bunks were very comfortable and it was a shame that, after this one particular occurrence, they were never quite the same again.

Given that this was over 20 years ago, it’s probably not surprising that I can’t remember the cause of what actually happened. Perhaps I had a migraine (I am occasionally still susceptible to them), maybe I had some other virus or maybe it was just because I had eaten way too many fizzy cola bottles. The bottom line is, one night, I was sick. Not just mildly sick, I mean I was SICK. The sort of sick that made you wonder if you hadn’t accidentally regurgitated a vital organ or whether your belly button had been permanently wrenched a few inches higher.

Whilst the exact details are thankfully sketchy, I definitely know that it was a long time before I was that sick again. In fact, not until an incident involving a bottle of ‘Apple Sourz’ in a unnamed Brighton nightclub many, many years later. But I’m not going to get into that.

So, despite the fact that I felt absolutely rotten, could barely move afterwards and had the sort of complexion normally reserved for one of the Cullen family in the Twilight movies  (I was dragged to see all of them by my wife, ok?) the sympathy in this lovely little story should be completely reserved for my parents who, of course, ended up having to clean the ‘debris’ from the bed, floor and, most trickily of all, from between the corners and joins of a large number of those wooden bed slats. Simply put, it cannot have been pleasant.

Regardless of the horror they experienced and the amount of Dettol they must have used, I simply assumed that, over time, my parents would have largely forgotten about the incident. After all, if my memory is a bit hazy when remembering the details, surely they would have just chalked it up to just another aspect of parenting they had to put up with and moved on, never to mention it again?

"We're going to need a bigger bottle…"

“We’re going to need a bigger bottle…”

Fast-forward at least 20/25 years later to a few weeks ago. M picked up a virus or bug from somewhere and the first thing to mention is that it fortunately went away after a couple of days and was not serious. However, she was really poorly and, one night, woke up around 1am clearly distressed. I got out of bed, went into her room and picked her up, hoping to calm her and soothe her back to sleep. That was when I heard ‘the noise’. You all know it, the noise that is to a bout of vomiting what a flash of lightning is to thunder. Standing there in just my pants (sorry for the visual image), I knew what was coming…and I could do nothing about it. Linda Blair from ‘The Exorcist’ was about to have some serous competition.

I was covered, M was covered and so I bolted to the bathroom to clear her up first and try and calm her down, all the time looking like I’d just been ‘gunged’ on Noel’s House Party. Even with my wife gallantly assisting, the whole operation took a while. Getting past it mentally took even longer.

The next day, I sent my mother a text to update her on M’s condition (she was due to look after her a couple of days later). I’d suddenly been reminded of the bed slat incident so mentioned that this was probably karma catching up with me over two decades later. I just expected her to just shrug it off to be honest, if she even remembered it. This was her reply:

“I have to tell you honestly that crossed my mind!!! Hahaha xx

So there we go. Whilst parenting is a wonderful, fulfilling, amazing experience full of love and joy, it also has a habit of bringing up (pun totally intended) your own childhood incidents and exacting revenge for them. The bed slats may be long gone, but they clearly have not been forgotten.  Bon appetit!

A Christmas song

On the first day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Some toe-fluff from between her feet.

On the second day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.

On the third day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Seven scribbled drawings, six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Eight blunted crayons, seven scribbled drawings, six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Nine snotty tissues, eight blunted crayons, seven scribbled drawings, six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Ten cartoon stickers, nine snotty tissues, eight blunted crayons, seven scribbled drawings, six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Eleven fridge magnets, ten cartoon stickers, nine snotty tissues, eight blunted crayons, seven scribbled drawings, six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Twelve Christmas baubles, eleven fridge magnets, ten cartoon stickers, nine snotty tissues, eight blunted crayons, seven scribbled drawings, six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.

Merry Christmas, Everyone 🙂

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Travels with our daughter

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The first few months with a new baby are constantly filled with firsts, new adventures and exciting experiences. However, being a natural worrier, there was one particular ‘first’ that I was in fear of until we tackled it head-on a couple of weeks ago: Our first trip abroad as a family.

Having not had a proper holiday since I beautifully photographed our adventure in Canada last summer, my wife and I needed a break. But it’s also fair to say that, given that we’d never gone away with Baby M before, I ‘may’ have got myself a little worked up with worry about travelling with her and keeping her safe in an unknown place, where I didn’t know if teething gel, wet wipes and Calpol would be sold by the bucket-load.

There were so many things to consider: the ridiculous amount of luggage we would have to carry, how M would react to being on an airplane, what would happen if she were ill, how we would get around, whether her routine would be so disrupted that we – not to mention the other people staying in the apartment building we were booked into – would be able to get any sleep whatsoever. Would this disturbance involve us being unceremoniously ejected from the apartment and onto the streets of Seville, with nowhere to go with a crying baby to try and soothe? Like I said, I may have got a little worked up.

Waking up at an intrusively early hour to begin with didn’t help. Having been getting up for work at 6am during the preceding weeks, I was somewhat disappointed to discover that this was also the time that we ideally needed to be at the airport, which would mean having to get up at 4.45am in order to get ourselves and M ready, making sure we had everything we needed and loading the car. All of this was soundtracked by my grumbling about the fact I wished that I was still in bed, before Mrs.D pointed out that the reason we were up so early was that an 8am flight was the best option with regards to M’s routine, therefore giving better odds on a calmer journey. Having no further argument, I shut up.

The transfer to the airport once we’d parked the car was fine, except for some fellow travellers who were quite content to barge past us, despite the fact that we were carrying a baby, a pushchair, five pieces of luggage and my already strained nerves. We muttered in their vague direction but were gushingly grateful towards the kind Japanese man who helped us move our heavy luggage off the bus. This was a great example of when you’re tired, stressed and with a baby, other people tend to fall into either the ‘wonderfully good’ or ‘pure evil’ category. There is no middle ground.

Surprisingly though, the rest of the pre-flight build up was a breeze. We had already checked in online (it was actually Mrs.D who’d done this, I’d been too busy getting irrationally stressed) so, despite the fact that we had packed enough nappies to survive the end of days, our main suitcase was amazingly within the weight restrictions when we got to the bag drop. Thanks to the ‘family lane’ we were quickly through security as well. In my opinion, all airport security metal detector doorways should be in the shape of a castle turret (nice touch, Gatwick airport). Who knows, maybe this would have stopped Diana Ross getting quite so stroppy?

Having got through the gate and left our pushchair to be put in the hold, we were on the plane. Amazingly, M was absolutely fine. She didn’t complain about the pressure in her ears, slept for most of the 2.5 hours and only got a bit fidgety and wriggly towards the end of the flight (my apologies to the kind Spanish lady sitting next to me, who had a small plastic duck smack her on the nose from close range).

Despite being tired, I was considerably calmer. That was until we reached our home for the next week, unloaded our bags from the taxi and reached for the pushchair to pop M in and wheel her up the cobbled streets to the apartment entrance. That was when we realised that this had happened:

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I’ll take my cue from Rhod Gilbert’s brilliant luggage sketch and not specifically name the airline that trashed our pushchair, so I’ll just say that their logo is bright orange, making it look as though you are flying inside a giant Duplo toy. Rather than be placed with care and love inside the plane’s hold, the pushchair had clearly had a close-to-20kg suitcase (perhaps one including a decade’s supply of Pampers?) thrown onto it with enough force to snap one of the arms. The worst part was that the pushchair wasn’t even our own. A very good friend of ours had kindly loaned us the use of hers for the week.

Trying to get past this annoyance, we decided that the first day would be used for settling in and getting used to our surroundings, whilst also searching for Sellotape and superglue in a desperate bid to patch up the pushchair. As nighttime came about though, some of my worries were unfortunately realised.

The building we were staying in had 6 apartments, an incredibly heavy front door and marble floors throughout the building, which meant that even the slightest of sounds reverberated (you can see where this is going, can’t you?) Unfortunately, our hopes of M seamlessly getting to sleep were thwarted by people coming in at all hours of the night and morning, leaving the heavy door to slam behind them whilst having loud conversations in the reception area that was immediately outside our ground floor abode. Every time I heard any of this, the people upstairs apparently dancing to ‘The Macarena’ or the middle base of M’s cot smack against the hard floor (we’d had the cot provided with the apartment, but no mattress to accompany it), I would clench so tightly that I almost gave myself a hernia. Sometimes, our little daughter was oblivious to all this, but most of the time she awoke with a start. On the rare occasions when she ignored these unwelcome interruptions, Mrs.D and I couldn’t.

By Sunday morning, we were tired, grumpy and anxious about the prospect of a full week of no sleep. We clung to the desperate straw that this was due to it being Saturday night and that the rest of our holiday wouldn’t be as bad. Fortunately it did get better, although M still woke up a number of times most nights. Cue rather bizarre scenes commencing around 6pm each evening after we’d put her to bed. She would be lying in her travel cot in the living room, seemingly having the whole place to herself, whilst Mrs.D and I would be huddled in the bedroom with our bowls of pasta, desperately trying not to make the slightest sound.

On a positive note though, Seville is a beautiful and very baby-friendly city, with plenty of people walking around with pushchairs, albeit of the unbroken variety. We were fortunate enough to be staying in the heart of the old town, near to the cathedral, the royal palace and other historical buildings. However, this meant that there were a lot of narrow cobbled streets to manoeuvre M around. The subsequent reverberation from the broken pushchair on M’s more vocal days made her sound like Cher.

Finding places to change and feed M was relatively simple, apart from one awkward moment whereby Mrs.D decided to feed her by a rather picturesque fountain, a minute before a tour party approached to look at it. We tried to look as nonchalant as possible, but I’m pretty sure that there are some people out there who ended up with more than they bargained for in their holiday snaps.

But by the end of the week, we’d found that we had settled into the daily routines despite the broken sleep and that we had been able to plan the days pretty effectively with regards to sightseeing, eating and narrowly getting run over by trams. I’d been able to get to a football match one evening whilst Mrs.D went to a flamenco show on another night (with whoever stayed behind getting further practice with the pasta huddle). We’d been pretty pleased with everything that we’d seen throughout the week, but were looking forward to getting home on the following Saturday afternoon. Before that though, Friday night happened.

It was the start of the weekend. As per the first night, slamming doors, pissed-up and tapas-fuelled tourists and a baby who had clearly decided that she’d had enough of sleeping in the world’s most uncomfortable travel cot interrupted our precious, beautiful slumber. I’ve tried to banish memories of those hideous few hours from my mind, but our night’s sleep was summed up best by my wife at around 7am, after we’d re-opened our eyes for the millionth time: “Well, at least we got an hour”, she said.

In fact, it was such a bad night that, before we left for the airport that morning, I seriously considered going out into the lobby and banging two of the apartment’s saucepans together as a bitter revenge against our inconsiderate fellow apartment guests. I sometimes get a bit petty when I’m tired.

We didn’t say much during the taxi ride, check-in and waiting at the gate, it was all rather a lot of effort. M was quite chatty though and we were fortunate that she was really good on the plane again as well, despite getting rather upset towards the end of the flight because of her ears popping. So, my thanks go to the elderly gentleman sitting behind us who distracted her enough during landing to stop her crying. My apologies as well to the same person who may have been a little uncomfortable when I joked that he’d “have to come home with us now” (please blame my aforementioned lack of sleep).

But, despite the worry, the loud doors, sleepless nights and the broken pushchair, I felt rather sad that we were back in the cold, wet UK. It’s easy to remember the aspects of a holiday that didn’t go so well, but it was certainly a learning experience and the mishaps shouldn’t detract from all the good. In fact, I’m already thinking about the next break, maybe somewhere else in Europe around Easter time. What’s Italian for “how can I fix this pushchair?”

In other news…

– Baby M is really getting this whole crawling lark figured out. Well, at the moment it is more of a speedy shuffle, with some weird thrusting movements beforehand that suggest she’s warming up for a 100m-style sprint out of the blocks. The items that she currently makes a beeline for most include: Her own socks, a small tin of Vaseline ‘lip therapy’, my dinner, the TV remote and (scarily) the front door when it’s open.

– Her vocal stylings sometimes sound like she’s saying “Dadda”. Clearly, I have not been encouraging this. Honest.

– Christmas is approaching, so does anyone know where you can get a reindeer outfit for a 7-month old?

Lights, satsumas…baubles!

Christmas!

I’m a big fan of Christmas and am also one of those sad people who has a ‘number of sleeps to Christmas’ app on my phone (24 sleeps at the time of writing, if you didn’t know and were vaguely curious). Anyway, this year I have decided to be proactive – hence why I am writing this on the first day in December – and try to make my Christmas experience even better by following these guidelines (although a good start would probably be to stop using words like ‘proactive’):

1) Stop mocking town Christmas lights:

Ok, so they usually never change and there is always something wrong with them. For instance, in the town where my grandparents lived, the same decorations were wheeled out for about 20 years running and unfortunately, but most memorably, the characters depicted (Santa, a snowman, a choirboy etc) all looked like they were being hanged. Where I live now, the lights have just gone up and the illuminated sprigs of holly and berries have a worryingly phallic shape to them (especially when they move up and down). But we shouldn’t mock. After all, England is a grey and wet old place and anything that goes some way to making a branch of Wilkinsons look pretty should probably be celebrated instead.

2) Don’t get ‘affected’ by the John Lewis advert.

They do it every year and we all know the formula, but it still works every time: Classic 80s song given a slow, piano-based makeover and sung in a cutesy female voice. A sad/happy storyline that involves a family growing up together or a cute child revelling in the joy of Christmas. This year, we have the surreal (and slightly pagan) tale of a snowman somehow travelling up and down the country to buy the perfect gift for Mrs. Snowman, sound-tracked to a mellow version of ‘The Power of Love’. That lump in my throat was just a large piece of toast, honestly…you’re a bunch of bastards, John Lewis marketing department.

3) Learn to wrap presents:

I am very envious of my wife. Creative sort that she is, the presents that she wraps are always beautifully symmetrical, decorated with ribbons and bows and they look so good that it is almost a shame to open them. Mine, on the other hand, usually consist of a 50/50 ratio between wrapping paper and sticky tape, whilst even the simplest shapes are so ineptly packaged that it looks like I have been involved in a fight to the death with whatever happens to be inside.

4) Take ownership (or at least 50%) of tree-decorating:

My involvement in the Christmas tree process typically extends to buying it, carrying it home and plonking it in the designated place in our living room. Decorating, however, has become the sole domain of Mrs.D. It’s not that I don’t want to do it, in fact it was one of my favourite Christmas activities in years gone by. Recently though, I’ve found that the fun goes out of it when you are being relentlessly project-managed and all your decorations are removed and repositioned (“there are too many baubles in that corner!”) This year though, I am determined that I will not be relegated to just putting Slade on in the background (I probably will).

5) Buy a Christmas jumper:

Yes, a PROPER Christmas jumper. One that contains 75% of all the colours known to man, has at least 4 reindeer on it and a couple of flashing lights (usually positioned around the nipple areas). I know they used to be tacky and the stuff of nightmares that would be knitted by your gran, but last year they appeared to make a surprising comeback in the fashion stakes. Of course, as it was last year, I may well have missed that particular bandwagon and will instead look like a gormless idiot, given that I am 34 years old and not a skinny hipster from Shoreditch. But hey, it’s Christmas.

6) Make Eggnog:

Truthfully, I don’t actually know what this is and, given the fact that it looks like it belongs in a fertility clinic, I’m not 100% convinced I want to drink it either. However, it appears to be a Christmas institution and is supposed to be incredibly potent, which is good enough for me. Besides, this is the only time of year where you can consume things that are utterly revolting in the name of tradition (Brussels Sprouts, anyone?)

7) Stop trying to do the Irish accent whilst singing along to ‘Fairytale of New York’:

This is self-explanatory, really. I love this song but my warbling is dreadful enough without also adopting an inconsistent blend of Irish, Scottish and Welsh with a hint of Jamaican thrown in.

8) Be more imaginative with buying Christmas presents.

This is to any members of my family who end up receiving a Christmas candle/ basket of bath soaps/condiments for cheese/anything from Millets: I AM VERY SORRY.

9) Remember what Christingle is:

Every year I have to ask my wife to tell me what it actually symbolises and I seem to forget pretty much straight away. The only thing I can recall is that it has something to do with a candle and an orange (will a satsuma do?) This probably sounds laughably pathetic, but at least it’s an improvement from last year, when I still thought it was a character from ‘Emmerdale’.

10) Be thankful:

I am usually a pessimistic person and tend to focus on and worry about the negatives, rather than concentrate on all the positives. This year though, I will try my hardest to do the opposite. After all, I have a lovely wife (when she’s not decorating the tree, anyway), a loving family and a fantastic group of friends. I am a lucky man and it’s only right that I remember that as we head into December. Happy holidays, everyone 🙂