I am emphatically, categorically not a grinch. That said, I'm ticking off Christmas pursuits like a psychotic Stepford Wife. Carol concert x 2 - done. Fake Christmas with mother in law- done. Tree - yep, you got it and this year it was half the size of normal and took less than an hour to decorate. Result. No Amazon lorries colliding in the driveway, no last minute trips to the Post Office (to be fair, I never was much good at that) no sprouts, no Spectre, no rows over the fact that only one of us actually likes turkey yet we have to have it every bloody year (My-Way-or-the-High-Way Patriarch? Yes we have one of those).
The reason being (heart begins to beat faster) that this year we're not doing Christmas as such. This year we're heading for sunnier climes, a primarily Buddhist country where Christmas is all but incidental. So while Father Christmas is packing his travel size stockings (see also deep vein thrombosis compression socks) in his suitcase, the day itself will find us lounging poolside, pondering whether to snorkel, kayak or hit another cocktail. I say this not to gloat, (when you have OCDs of my magnitude you understand that gloating is for amateurs) but because it's made me realise what a ChristmasZilla I am normally. From banning tinsel to painstakingly realigning the tree decs to orchestrated countdowns until present opening. Such a control freak, in fact, that it was unanimously decided by my siblings that I must never be allowed to host Christmas again. All in all it's been utterly libertating getting off the Santa train. I'm sure in 12 months' time I'll get carried away all over again with the hoping for snow and the Wham on repeat and the dropping two hundred notes on Top Shop cosmetics but for now, see ya, I've got an emergency pedicure to get to. Merry Christmas Everyone.