Tonight I walked past a house with Christmas carols pouring out of it. On closer look, there were a bunch of grey-haired folk inside, standing in a row and singing their hearts out while a zany lady conducted. You know those zany ladies. Big hair, big earrings, big hand gestures and bright red lipstick.
The next house had another open window and a handsome man sitting at a piano, playing a festive tune. He had glasses and dark curly hair and a serious expression. We stood there listening as he played and I sent him ESP messages. Hey, Dark Curly Piano Guy, look at me. Look up at me and I’ll smile then you’ll smile back, then you’ll invite me in and you can keep playing while I casually drape myself on the piano drinking wine…
But he didn’t look up. Bah humbug! So I told Harry to lift his leg on the mailbox. That dog can pee on cue, I tells ya.
It’s hard to stay crotchety about Christmas when my flatmates are in high spirits. Emily’s done her shopping already and is playing her Bing Crosby CD and making biscotti.
On Sunday we bought a real live Christmas tree at the markets. I’ve never had a proper tree before. It looks beautiful. Except it makes me sneeze.
As if that wasn’t Christmasy enough, Rhiannon then had the bright idea of baking our own tree decorations. I was entrusted to make the cookie dough. Half a kilo of flour landed on the floor but it worked okay. The fun part was the decorating. We had pink icing and green icing and those little silver ball thingies. Rhiannon’s looked perfect, like the ones in the picture from the magazine (above) but mine looked a little mutated. But it has personality.