Thank fuck that’s over: an ode to Christmas

To be honest, it’s been one of the nicest Christmas’ I’ve had. For the first time in 10 years I didn’t enter the festive period filled with panic that everything I’d bought everyone was completely the wrong thing.

It was the first year I found the word ‘no’ to Christmas drinks, meet ups and dinners every night from the first Monday of December to the New Year. I was done with getting to Christmas Eve being a shadow of my former self, knackered and a bit anxious.

Despite all of that, I’m still breathing a bloody great big sigh of relief with a lot of the country that it’s over.

Not for wanting to see less of my family, that bit has been lush.


I am delighted to see the back of launching a missing persons campaign for the end of the sellotape every time you find yet another stocking filler or reed diffuser for an Auntie that you forgot to wrap up on the one day you dedicated 7 hours of your life to bending over wrapping paper and coming out walking like Dame Thora Hird.

I’m pleased it’s 12 months til I have to have a fucking row with the adhesive back of pre bowed bows that are never ever sticky enough.

I’m ecstatic that it’ll be hundreds of days before I have to have another heated encounter about what my Boots Advantage Card actually qualifies me discount for and what it doesn’t (basically, everything) and the same amount of time before I am able to wallpaper my toilet with ‘we missed you’ cards.

I’m over watching Christmas films that, rather than make me feel festive, make me spend four weeks getting really emosh about Emma Thompson finding out her husband was philandering bastard (even when I wasn’t watching it) and that I’ll never look as good as Cameron Diaz in my jim jams.

Put simply, if I smell anything else mulled, I’ll probably punch a man.

Similarly, if I spy anything else rolled, dipped or wrapped in batter or pastry that’s come in a multipack from the freezer section of any given high street supermarket, there’s a high chance I will burst into a ball of acid reflux and will never be seen again.

I don’t want to be near another itchy Christmas jumper and if I’m being totally transparent, if you were to do a recce of my calorie intake over the last 8 days I’d qualify for World’s Biggest Loser and give Rik Waller and his ‘same body fat content as a pub snack’ appearance a run for it’s money.

My recycling doesn’t bear looking at and my skin has seen better days.

Not because of the wine, not because of the cocktails, not because of the excessive levels of potassium I’ve consumed through varying pieces of meat.

Oh no.

But from my biggest Christmas nemesis of them all.

Central fucking heating.

A lack of fresh air, an abundance of sitting too many to a sofa (that’s often in front of a red hot radiator), like you’re in the doctors,  because everyone that has guests whacks the heating up because they can’t bear the thought of being branded the Scrooge that stole Christmas and didn’t put the rads AND the fire on when there’s 14 people in a room fit for 3 at best.

Give me strength, fresh air and some bloody spinach.

I’m done.

LL x






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