Phew, we made it.
On the eleventh date of Christmas, we flew into town to finish our Christmas shopping, and escaped from the rain into Sweeney and Todd’s for lunch. They do excellently meaty pies, but no Johnny Depp.
Even if you’re not a pie person, their dessert menu is enough to make you weep tears of sugary gratitude. Unfortunately their pies were so good we didn’t have room, but next time. NEXT TIME.
And – drum roll please – on the twelfth date of Christmas, it was…Christmas.
It was our first ever Christmas morning at home, and Henry’s first Christmas as well. It felt momentous, and I was anxious that we should tick off all our Christmas traditions and invent new ones that would bind our family together in love and deliciousness forevermore. I’d given myself two new forehead wrinkles worrying about it before I was reminded that all Henry cared about was milk on tap and sackloads of tissue paper to roll around in. Which he did, beautifully.
(Aside: do your Christmas traditions sometimes get a little out of hand? I give you: the Thing That Started Just With Matching Pyjamas And Now Involves Iron-On Transfers And Photoshoots. Where will it go next year? The mind boggles.)
This year we squeezed a trip up North and a two-day family wedding in between the usual festivities of presents, church and cheese-eating. It’s been wonderful, but it has felt like we’ve spent a lot of Christmas in the car. Especially grateful cheers, then, for the twelve moments in December we slowed down, held hands, and reminded each other why things are just brilliant.
And a partridge in a pear tree. The end.