Hazy Shades of Me

At least I don’t have to wear the crippling stilettos or the breathtaking (no really, I can’t breath) party frock while puzzling over extension cord hell, wading through the tangled light swamps, while fighting mean crowds for a Black Magic Box or when searching the aisles for the perfect fuzzy socks.

I didn’t mean to rhyme that last sentence, I swear. I’m pretty sure you can tell from the imbalance I created by doing so. But…’tis the season, right?

Everyone’s in a jolly, rhymy, singy type of mood. Yes, even me. Well, maybe not jolly and singy, but it seems rhymy isn’t a stretch.

If you read my post from last year I’m sure you’re worried about this one, but I’d like to ease your mind. I am in a slightly better position this time around. Our lights, although there can never be enough for the kids, are up and all are glowing. Our parlour is as finished as it’s going to get for now and looking rather festive I must say, swagged with seasonal set dec and sprouting a spriggy Spruce.

I’m bought and wrapped (around each of these kid’s fingers that is) and the chimney is ready to soot that red suit.

Extra! Extra! I’m shoutin’ it loud from a snow-laden rooftop near you. It’s down to the wire folks, and  I hope you’re as ready as I think I am because, as merry as it is, Christmas waits for no one. Naughty or nice.