Hidy-high.

Hidy-low.

How was it? Magical? White? (!) The most wonderful time of your year?

Or was is squabble filled, intoxicating (both ways) & false?

Mine was a mixture; a lot of nick-naks were received, infallibly bogus pleasantries exchanged but at the root of this suffocating few days there was pure joy.

Mother was a treat; laying on spreads, waiting on my small but demanding family without a groan, and her happiness was contagious.

I'll note a few amusing trinkets that were bestowed upon me & chit-chat about them some time in the near future;

Irish mouth spray; 'One spray & you'll be almost Leprechaun in accent'

Nautical note cards; not indie type images, 18th Century frights

Ice scraper with fur glove; I don't own a car

Inflatable beer bottle; hate the fluid

Slinky; best of a bad bunch

Still, my brother was blessed with 3 sets of blister plasters. Individually wrapped. How I laughed.

I was full as a Lord, complacent and blithe. It ticked the boxes.

Could've done without 'Ding Dong Merrily on High' on repeat throughout dinner though.

Heel.

Why do we say that to our non-communicative canines? Is it to draw them to our heels as I assume? If so, I find this quite offensive on their behalf.

I popped on some trotters today to scoot to an agency interview. A PA agency. I was put through my paces with speed, touch typing and SPG tests. I enjoyed it.

The outcome was 51 words per minute, minor mistakes in touch typing and bang on the money for SPG. I did not, however, receive a gold star. Foul play.

Leaving me disgruntled (it was too quick an application; I'll get no call, that I'm sure of), I took a stroll (heels still on) to the Royal Mail sorting office, Wood Green.

Helping several geriatrics as I went, I was feeling buoyant and almost festive. I slip into the 13 deep queue, amongst some Scots. Their banter was audible, though I couldn't decipher most. Filling my time with Tweets and e-mail deleting I admired the weather.

Slap my knee and call me Janet, who joins the line? Alex Zane no less. I freeze. I stare. I keep staring for a whole 10 people til I am poked in the arm to pass my parcel request over. I'm playing it cool, naturally.

His curls are taut, though I can only see a few as they're stuck under an OTT beanie. I could get used to it though, gun to my head & all that. The males facial hair is magnetic and his relaxed-casual get up is ... alluring. Is this love? Possibly.

It's not reciprocated. I'll tell you why;

The package I'm picking up, is not a package - it's a card. A monstrous card from my mother. All singing, all dancing Christmas humdinger. It's tinsel, baubles and gaiety that I've been avoiding. What's worse, I have to pay £1.12 for the pleasure of receiving the damned thing.

Bollocks, I don't have the cash, my shrapnel only reaches 90 pence.

I look to love of life. Nothing. Blank.

I look to postman. Request to try before I buy (open the card).

BOOM a crisp ten pound note. I pay with it.

Shuffle out & mourn the lost lust of Zane.

Heel.